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AUTHOR OF ‘‘ DORA THORNE. 


OUIDA 


17 TO 27 VaNdeWater 3t 

vAl ev/YorkJ-- 


TWW!5!?iTO5ff'$?rf7 


ifftired 1885 . by Gt^nrge Munro 




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\0 





MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBEAEY -POCKET EDITION. 


no 


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. PRICE. 

Yolande Bj William Black 20 

Molly Bawn. By’*The Duchess” — 20 
The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 20 

Under Two Flags. By‘‘Oujda” 20 

Admiral’s Ward. By Mrs Alexander. 20 

Portia. By“Th3 Duchess” .. 20 

File No. 113 By Emile Gaboriau , . 20 

East Lynne. By Mrs Henry Wood 20 

Wanda. By “ Ouida ” . ... 20 

The Old Curiosity Shop By Dickens 20 
John Halifax, GentL man MissMulock 20 
Other Peopl ’s Money By Gaboriau 20 
Eyre’s Acquittal By Helen B Mathers lO 
Airy Fairy Lilian By “ The Duchess ” 10 

Jan^ Eyre By Charlotte Brout6 

Phyllis By ” The Duchess ” 

The Wooing O t B}' Mrs. Alexander.. 

Shandon Bells By William Black 

Her Mother’s Sin By the Author of 

Dora Thoru>^ ” 

Within an Inch of His Life. By Emile 
Gaboriau 

Sunrise By William Black 20 

David Copperfle*d Dickens Vol 1 . 20 
David Copper field Dickens Vol II. 

A Princess of Thule. By William Black 
Pickwick Papers Pickens. Vol I . . 
Pickwick Papers Dickens Vol II.. 

Mrs Geoffrey. By ” The Duchess ”... 

M -nsi -ur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vcl I. 
Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau Vol. II. 
Vanity Fair By William M. Thackeray 

Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott 

Beauty’s Daughters. ” The Duchess ” 
Faith and Unfaith. By ‘‘ The Duchess ” 

MiddDmarch By George Eliot 

The Land Leaguers. Anthony Trollope 20 I 
Th‘i Cliciu ? of Gold. By Emile Gaboriau 10 i 
Daniel D^ronda By' George Eliot ... 80 
Lady Audley’s Secret. Miss Braddon 20 ! 

Adam Bede By George Eliot 20 ! 

Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens 30 
The Widow Leroage. By Gaboriau.. 20 

In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 1 

The Last Days of Pompeii. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 

Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens ... . 

Romola. By George Eliot 2D j 

The Mystery of Orcival. Gaboriau 20 ; 

Macleod of Dare. By William Piack.. 20 
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NO. PRICE. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. D. C. Murray 10 

69 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey 20 

60 The Last of the Mohicans. Cooper.. 20 

61 Charlotte Temple By Mrs Rowson. 10 

62 The Executor. By Mrs Alexander 20 

63 The Spy. By J Fenimore Cooper . 20 

64 A Maiden Fair By Charles Gibbon . . 10 

65 Back to the Old Home By M C Hay 10 

66 Ihe Romance of a Poor Young Man 

By Octave Feuillet — 10 

67 Lorna Doone By R D Blackmore 30 

68 A Queen Amongst Women By tb3 

Author of ” Dora Thorne ’’ . . £0 

09 Madolin’s Lover. By the Authoi’ of 

” Dora Thorne ’ . . .20 

70 Wliite Wings By William Black 10 

71 A Struggle for Fame Mrs Riddeil! 20 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money ByM C Hay 20 

73 Redeemed by Love By the Author ol 

” Dora Thorne ’ 20 

74 Aurora Floyd By Miss M E Braddon 25 

75 Twenty Years After By Dumae 20 

76 Wife in Name Only By the Author of 

” Dora Thorne ’’ . 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities By Dickens 15 

78 Bladcap Violet By William Black 23 

79 Wedded and Parted By the Author 

of ‘ Dora Thorne ' 10 

80 June By Mrs Forrester . 20 

81 A Daughter of Ileth By Wm Hiack aC 

82 Sealed Lips ByF Du Boisgcney . . 20 

83 A Strange Story. Bulwer l..ytton- 80 

84 Hard Times By Charles tick eng .. »'0 

85 A Sea Queen By W Clark Russell . . 20 

86 Belinda By Bboda Broughton 20 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at Fifteen 

By Jules Verne 20 

88 The Privateersman Captain Marryg-t 2C 

89 The Red Eric. By R IVI . Bailantyne £<? 

90 Ernest Maltravers Bulwer Lyttoic. . 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles tick ene &0 

92 Lord Lynne s Choice By the Authcr 

of *■ Dora Thorno ’ CO 

93 Anthony Trollope's Autc’c icgraphy . 20 

94 I.ittle Dorrit 1st and 2d bait, each 20 

95 The Fire Brigade R M Ballantyno 10 

96 Erling the Bold By R M Ballaatyoc 10 

97 All in a Garden Fair W alter Besant. . 20 , 

98 A Woman Hater. By Charles Reade 13 
. 99 Barbara s History A B EdwR,rd& . 20 

By Mrs. Oliphant... 10! iOO 20.000 Leagues Under the Staa By 

By Charles Reade.. 20 Jules Verne 20 

Alti'ora Peto. By Laurence Oliphant.. 20 i 101 Second Thoughts Rhoda Broughton 20 

Thicker Than Water. By James Payn. 20 ■ 102 The Moonstone By Wilkie Collins 15 

That Beautiful Wretch. By Black... 20! i03 Rose Fleming. By Dora Rursel 10 

The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. i 104 The Coral Pm. By F Du Boisgobey 30 

By William Black 20 |^05 A Noble Wife. By John Saunders .. 20 

Dora Thorne. By the Author of “ Her i 106 Cleak House By Charles Dickens , <i0 

Mother’s Sm” 20 107 DombeyandSon Charles .Dickens 40 

The New Magdalen. Bjv Wilkie Collins !0 108 The Cricket o the Hearth, and Doctor 

Mangold By Charles Dickens 20 

109 Little Loo By W. Clark Russeil . . , 20 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss Braddon 20 

111 The Little School-Master Mark By i 

J li Shorthouae .... 20 1 

112 Tbe Waters of Marab. By John Hill 20 ) 


20 
20 ! 
20 
20 • 
20 i 
20 
20 ; 
20 t 
201 
10 ! 
20 
20 


20 

15 


The Story of Ida By Francesca 20 

A Broken Wedding Ring. By the Au- 
thor of ” Dora Thorne ” 20 

The Three Guardsmen By Dumas 20 

Phantom Fortune Miss Braddon.... 20 
Shirley. By Chanott© Brcnt6 20 


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113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

G. Wightwick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. 

C. J. Eiloart 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

116 Moths. By“Ouida” 20 

117 A Tale of the Sliore and Ocean. 

By W. H. G. Kingston 20 

1 18 Loys, Lord Berresford, and Erie 

Dering. By “ The Dueliess ”. 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “ The Duchess ”.. 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes 20 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin Mc- 

Carthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Dueliess” 10 

124 Three Feathers. By William 

Black 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 

By William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black. . . 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “Ouida” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duch- 

GSS .. • 10 

130 The Last of the Barons. By 

Sir E. BulwerLytton 40 

131 Our Mutual b'riend. By Charles 

Dickens. 1st and 2d half, each 20 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By W. H. G. 

Kingston 10 

134 The Witching Hour. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

135 A Gi-eat Heiress. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal.” By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

137 Uncie Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By William Black 20 

139 The Romantic Adventures of a 

Milkmaid. B.v Thomas Hardy 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune. By Walter 

Besant 10 

141 She Loved Him 1 By Annie 

Thomas 10 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. 

Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By 

Emile Gaboriau 10 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan . . 20 

146 Love B’inds the Way. By Walter 

Besant and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 

lope 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 


NO. PRICE. 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

153 The Golden Calf. By MissM. E. 

Braddon 20 > 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156 “ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Jlrs. . 

Herbert Martin 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robin- 

son ; 20 

158 The Starling. By Norman Mac- 

leod, D.D 10 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories. By Florence 
Marryat 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
Lord Lytton 10 

162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton 20 

163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 

rell 20 

164 Leila ; or, The Siege of Grenada. 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 10 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 

By William Makepeace.Thack- 
eray 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. By 

“The Duchess” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Charles 

Dickens and Wilkie Collins. . . 10 

169 The Haunted Man. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus 30 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

173 The Foreigners. By Eleanor C. 


174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge.. 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other 

Stories. By Wilkie Collins. . . 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa P. 

Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs.Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. By 
Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

181 The New Abelard. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182 The Millionaire. A Novel 20 


10 


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183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 

ries. By Florence Marryat. ... 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E Norris. 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jendie 10 

186 The Gabon’s Ward. By James 

Pa.vn 20 

187 The Midnight Sun. By Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 


189 Valerie’s Fate. Mrs. Alexander 6 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 


Lever 15 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

193 The Rosary Folk. Bj’^ G. IMan- 

ville Fenn •. 10 

194 “SoNear, anflYet So Farl” By 

Alison 10 

195 “ The AVay of the World.” By 

David Christie Murray 15 

196 Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne 

Beale 10 

200 An Old Man's Love. By An- 

thony Trollope 10 

201 The Monastery. By Sir Walter 

Scott. 20 

202 The Abbot. B.v Sir Walter Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island, By 

Max O’Rell 10 

204 Vixen. B.y Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

205 The Minister’s Wife. Bj' Mrs. 

OUphant 30 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades. Bv Charles Reade. . 10 

207 Pretty Miss Seville. By B. M. 

Onok©!* 15 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 

rent Events. B.y Chas. Reade 10 

211 The Octoroon. B3' Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

212 Charles 0’Malle.y, the Irish Dra- 

goon. By Chas. Lever (Com- 
plete in one volume) 30 

213 A Terrible Temptation. Chas. 

Reade 15 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 15 

216 Foul Play. By diaries Reade. 15 

217 'I'he Man She Cared For. By 

F. AV. Robinson.. 15 


218 Agnes Sorel, By G. P. R. James '15 

219 Lady Clare ; or. The Master of 

the Forges. By Georges Ohnet 10 


NO. PRICE. 


220 Which Loved Him Be.st? By 

the author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

221 Coniin’ Thro’ the Rye. By 

Helen B. Mathers 15 

222 The Sun-Maid. By Miss Grant 15 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W. 

Clark Russell 15 

224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

Hay 15 

225 The Giant’s Robe. ByF. Anstey 15 

226 Friendship.' By “ Oiiida ” 20 

2*27 Nancy. B3' Rhoda Broughton. 15 

228 Princess Napraxine. Bj' ” Oui- 

da”.. 20 

229 Maid, AA’ife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By AValter 

Besant. 15 


231 Griffith Gaunt. Charles Reade 15 

232 Love and Money; or, A Perilous 

•Secret. By Charles Reade. .. lO 

233 “ I Say No or, the Love-Letter 


Answered. Wilkie Collins.... 15 

234 Bai'bara; or, Splendid Misery. 

Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 

Mend.” Bv Charles Reade. .. 20 

236 AVhich Shall ltBe?. Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By the 

author of “ Dora Thome ”... 15 

238 Pascarel. B.y“Ouida” 20 

239 Signa. By “Ouida” 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby's Grandmother. By 

L. B. Walford 10 

242 The Two Orphans. B}’^ D’Ennery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half. By Charles Leyer 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Leyer 20 

244 A Great Mistake. Bv the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 20 

245 Miss Tommj'. and In a House- 

Boat. By Miss Mulock 10 

246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

of “ His AVedded AVife ” 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices, By 

Charlotte M, Yonge 10 

248 The House on the Marsh, F. 

AVarden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 


251 The Daughter of the Stars, and ' 

Other Tales. B.v Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back” 10 

252 A Sinless Secret, By “ Rita”.. 10 
2.53 The Amazon B.y Carl Vosmaer 10 
254 The Wife's Secret, and Fair but 

False. By' the author of 


“Dora Thorne” lO 

255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry 

AVood 15 

256 Mr. Smith: A Part of His Life. 

Bv L B. AValford 15 




THE SEASIDE LIBRARY —Pocket Edition. 


NO, PRICK. 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 
geant 10 

•268 Cousins. By L. B. Walford.-. .. 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Ci isto. (A 

Sequel to “ ITie Count of 
Moiite-Cristo.” By Alexander 
Dumas.- 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid, By F. W. Robinson 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Gi'isto. 

Parti By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count of Monte Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 


Braddon 15 

264 Pi^douche, A French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare ; Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By William Black 15 

266 The Water-Babies. A B'aii‘5'^ Tale 

for a liand-Baby . By the Rev. 
Charles Kingsley 10 

267 Laurel A'^g.ne; or. The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

Misei’‘s Treasure. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

269 Lancaster's Clioice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh j\Iiller 20 

270 The AVandering Jew. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Slysteries of Paris. Part I. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 

By Eugene Sue 20 

272 The Little Savage. By Captain 

Marry at 10 

273 Love and Mirage ; or, The AA^ait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 
Betham Edwards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 


Pi incess of Great Britain and 


Ireland. Biographical Slcetch 
and Letters 10 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Florence Manyat (Mrs. Fi^u- 
cis Lean) 10 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

Airs. Henry AVood. A Alan of 
His AA^ord. By W. E. Norris. 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Little Goldie. Airs. Sumner Hay- 

den 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Airs. B’orrester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Alary 

Cecil Hay 15 

282 Donal Grant. By George Alac- 

Donald 15 

283 The Sin of a lifetime. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

284 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” . . 10 


NO. PRICK, 

285 The Gambler’s AVife 20 

286 Deldee ; or, The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

287 At AVar AVith Herself. By the 

author of ” Dora Thorne ”. . . 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a “ Brutal 


Saxon ”, 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test, By Alary Cecil 

Hay 20 

291 Love’s AA’^arfare. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

292 A Golden Heart. By the author 

of “Dora Thoi'ne ” 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

295 A AA’'Qman’sAA’^ar. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ” .\ 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ”.. 10 

298 Alitchelhurst Place. By Alarga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea. By the author 
of “Dora Thorne” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love." By the author of “ Dora' 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By 

Plugh Conway 10 

303 Ingledew House, and Alore Bit- 

ter than Death. By the author 
of “Dora Thorne” 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

ft “Dora Thorne” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 

Day. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

307 Two Kis.ses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

308 Beyond Pardon .- 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J, Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Feuimore 

Cooper -20 

311 Two Years Before the Alast. By. 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 AAVeekinKillarney. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

313 The Lover’s Creed. By Airs. 

Cashel Hoey 15 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

315 The Alistletoe- Bough, Edited 

by Aliss AI. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline Rod- 

ney’s Secret. By Airs. Alex. 


McVeigh Miller 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 

317 By Mead and Stream. Charles 

Gibbon 20 

318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

819 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 

820 A Bit of Human Nature. By 

David Christie Murray. 10 

821 The Prodigals: And Their In- 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphaut 10 

822 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

823 A Willful Maid 20 

824 In Luck at. Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

825 The Portent. By George Mac- 

donald 10 

826 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men ^nd Women. By 
George Macdonald 10 

827 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

828 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boissobey. First half. 20 
828 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. Second half 20 

329 The Polish Jew. ByErckmann- 

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’ V 



MY SISTER KATE 



By CHAELOTTE M. BEAEME, 

Author of “ Dora Thome.” 


A RAINY JUNE. 



By ^^OUIDA.” 



' 17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. 


CONTENTS. 


PAas. 


MY SISTER KATE 9 

A RAINY JUNE 39 

THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY 71 



MY SISTER KATE. 

By CHARLOTTE M. BBAEME, author of “ Dora Thames 


! 


CHAPTER 1. 

We were children of one father; but Kate’s mother was a tall 
stately woman who looked as though she were born to command — 
mine was a fair gentle English girl who died when I was born. 

Our father, Squire Hamber, as he was always called, was «vell 
known and much esteemed by all the country people round about 
us. The Hambers were not a wealthy family, but they were a very 
old one. Ko one remembered the village of Clifton without a 
Hamber living in it. None but Hambers had ever occupied the old 
Granae. There had never been a title in the family, and there had 
never been any great amount of money; still in the whole county 
no one was more looked up to, both by gentle and simple, than my 
father. His income was sufficient to keep the Grange as a com- 
fortable home where genial, true hospitality reigned, and to find 
for his daughters every luxury that a young lady could desire. My 
sister Kate had a maid and a groom; 1 had a governess whom I 
loved very dearly. Altpgelher our home was a very comfortable 
one, and we moved in the best society. 

Our neighbors were most of them “grandees.” The Earl of 
Morven was dhe chief magnate of the county, and Morven Castle 
was not far from the Grange. Then there was the Hall, where the 
Erlesmeres used to dwell, thougli it was closed and desolate now. 
There was, besides, Charlton Towers, the residence of young Allan 
Charlton, one of the richest men in the county. Clifton, taking it 
altogether, was a very aristocratic little village. 

Morven Castle was the center of hospitality. The “ noble earl,” 
as the county papers delighted to call him, was never so happy as 
w’hen his grand old place was full of visitors. Charlton Woods 
.surrounded the village of Clifton. There was many a beautiful 
view and picturesque glade in them; but the village itself wns chiefly 


10 


MY SISTER KATE. 


remarkable for its cleanliness and quiet. The Grange, our home, 
was situated at one end. It was a low, straggling house, full o| 
pretty nooks and corners; a broad green lawn sloped Irom the 
house to the high-road. 

We were always proud of the lawn, it was so level, and the grass 
was so green and soft; it was brightened by beds of brilliant flowers 
— scarlet verbenas, the scented purple heliotrope, fragrant mignon- 
ette, and gloriously tinted carnations. Two large iron gates opened 
on to the road. We frequently saw passers-by stop to admire our 
beautiful flowers. On each side of the lawn was a row of lime- 
trees, beneath the shady branches of which was our favorite prome- 
nade. At the back of the Grange there still remained what had 
once helped to form the moat, a lake of clear deep water. Droop- 
ing willow-trees grew round it, and their sweeping branches touched 
the surface. Two stately swans sailed majestically on it, and 1 was 
never tired of watching them. At the end of the pleasure-grounds 
was a gate which led direct to the broad path of Charlton Woods. 

1 do not think a pleasanter or prettier home could have been found. 

My father, Paul Hamber, w’as a thorough student; he seemed to 
live only in and for his books. 1 can not tell whether he had always 
been the same; but, judging from his thoughtful face, his broad 
intellectual brow, 1 should say he had alwa5"s been a student and a 
scholar. lie married his first wife. Kale’s mother, when he was 
very young. 1 suppose he must have loved her, although in dis- 
position they were very ditterent. 8he was a magnificent woman, 
with a figure and face that would have suited an empress. They 
lived very happily. Kate inherited much of her mother’s beauty, 
although in her it had a softened aspect. • When she was six years 
old her mother died. She lies in the vault of the Hambers, and my 
dear mother sleeps near her. 

Kate was a very high-spirited girl, original, wild, and daring, ut- 
terly beyond the comprehension of the\ale refined scholar. For a 
long time he was perplexed to know what course to pursue with her. 
lie continued wondering until she had reached her ninth year; and 
then it struck him that his only resource was to marry again, and 
to provide his beautiful little torment with a more fitting guide thau 
himself. This time his choice tell upon ji gqntle, fragile, delicate 
girl, the only child of a widow-lady residing near Clifton. Claribel 
Wynne was my mother’s name. 1 have her portrait now. She 
was never perhaps what people call beautiful; but she had a sweet 
patient face, with deep violet eyes and brown hair. ]My father 
thinks I am like her; he tells me, however, that 1 do not look so 


MY SISTER KATE. 


n 


good. In her eyes there was the mysterious shadow always seen in 
the e 5 ^e 8 of those who die young. 

My fair young mother died when 1 was horn; she rests by the 
side of the stately lady who first reigned at the Grange. Her death 
east a deep shadow over my father’s life. He was now worse off 
than ever; instead of one child, he had two, and the younger was 
a delicate babe. He procured a nurse for me and another goveiness 
for Kate. Miss Hilton has been with us ever since; she will never 
leave us again. Kate w^as just ten years older than I. Oui birth- 
days were both in the bright month of June. 

At the time of which 1 write 1 was just eieht and she was eight- 
een — eighteen and one of the most beautiful girls in the whole 
country round. Clever, daring, wild, and original, Kate had not 
lost one cf her early characteristics. She was exceedingly fascinat- 
ing, with a piquant charming manner that no one could resist. She 
h|d wonderful natural gifts too, although she was not intellectual; 
she did not read much, but she sung in a sweet rich contralto voic^ 
— a magnificent voice, full of passion and tenderness. She could 
not, or rather would not, play a piece of music correctly; but she 
could improvise for hours together and sing songs ot her own com- 
posing until she drew tears from every eye. She was a daring 
horsewoman, also one of the most graceful dancers 1 ever saw. 
One of Kate’s great charms was her wonderful wit: she had a re- 
markable talent for repartee. No matter where she went, Kate was 
always the chief center of attraction; YiQi bons mots, quizzical but 
never ill-natured, were often quoted. Kate was beloved by every 
one. 1 believe the secret of this lay in the tact that she bad a gen- 
eious nature and kind heart. She was, some people thought, ridic- 
ulously morbid on the subject of pain., either mental or physical; 
she could not endure to see any one suffer. 1 do not think in her 
whole ^ife she ever willingl^inflicied pain, either by word or deed, 
upon any creature. 

1'hose inclined to envy Kate could not help liking her. She was 
too proud to be vain; she was far above all innocent little coquetries 
and affectations to bring .her beauty into notice. She was a grand 
creature, although she had her faults. Perhaps the chief ot these 
was what she called* fim^ness, and my father called obstinacy; she 
inherited the iron Hamb^r will that never bent. If Kate once de- 
cided upon a thing, nothing could change her; reason, advice, en- 
treaties were all in vain. If my sister had been guided and trained 
by a wise and loving mother, 1 believe she would have been nearly 


n 


MT SISTER KATE. 


perfect; her virtues were her own, her faults the result of a want 
of proper discipline. 

This is but a faint sketch of her charming, lovable, original char- 
acter. Just as faintly am 1 able to describe her beautiful proud 
face, with its ever-changing expression, its perfection of feature 
and grand beauty of color, its wondrous eyes so dark and clear — 
so haughty, yet so sweet — full of veiled tenderness, yet ever and 
anon flashing with mischievous mirth; the jet-black fringes of the 
long lashes swept the exquisite cheeks, the delicate brows were as 
perfect as though they had been penciled, the queenly head was 
crowned with coils of shining raven hair, her arm and hand were 
perfectly shaped. 

No one could properly describe my sister's beauty, because it was 
ever changing, ever new; no one could set down the varied phases 
of feeling that flitted over her soul-lit face. 

Kate B amber was undoubtedly the belle of the county. Lovers 
, sighed around her; but she laughed at all— she did not seem at^all 
like a subject for the tender passion. 1 think Allan Charlton loved 
her best. He worshiped her, if ever man worshiped woman. 
When she was present Allan forgot every one else; he lived for days 
on the memory of a smile or a kind word. He was rich, talented, 
handsome; his position in society was high, his character unblem- 
ished; he was brave, chivalrous, and loyal, true in word and deed, 
simple and trustful as a child, courageous yet tender. He was all 
that one could wish; but he could not reach Kate’s heart. That 
was safe as yet. He had made her many offers; she had invariably 
refused him — and yet poor Allan would not despair. After each 
rejection he seemed for a few days to bf3 utterl}'^ wretched; then he 
took heart again, and again began to hope. He loved her so wildly 
and so intensely that he could not believe he was to live without 
her. Kate was fond of him in a quiet kind of way. It is possible 
that in time she wmuld have learned to love him but fer what 1 am 
about to relate. 

Allan was a great reader, and consequently a congenial compan- 
ion for my thoughtful refined father. He came to the Grange every 
day, sometimes more than once. When he had been rejected, 1 was 
his refuge. He would nurse me and play with me, only now and 
then venturing to look at Kate. 1 have often thought he acted un- 
wisely for his own interest. She had a proud hich nature; she re- 
quired a master, not a lover. Allan was all gentleness and submis- 
sion; a frown from her made him wretched, a smile frem her beau- 
tiful lips rendered him supremely happy. Whomsoever Kate loved 


MY STSTER KATE. 

she must look up to; and the time had not come yet for her to appre- 
ciate this gentle, loving, chivalrous heart. 

My father was one of Allan*s warpiest advocates. 1 believe he 
considered Kate very unreasonable because she did not fall in lov 3 
when he wished her to do so. 

It was Kate’s eighteenth birthday— a beautiful bright June day. 
1 remember it all so well, althouijh 1 was but eight years old. After 
dinner, the evening was so lovely that my father declared we must 
drink our lea in the little summer house by the lake. Allan had 
dined with us. He was in radiant spirits, for Kale wore in her hair 
some of the exquisite and costly flowers he had presented to her in 
the morning. 

As we sat at tea, we heard the sharp ring of a horse’s hoofs upon 
the road — whoever rode that horse rode furiously. My father’s 
attention was attracted by the sound. 

Who is that?” he said w'onderingly. “ 1 did not know w’e had 
slich a daring rider in the neighborhood.” 

” 1 fancy,” answered Allan, “it is the new tenant of the Hall. 
Hid you not know that the lawsuit is ended and the verdict given 
in favor of Sir Victor Erlcsmcre, who took possession of the estate 
a few days since?” 

” No,” replied my father; ‘‘ I have not heard. I am very pleased. 
1 did not like the desolate appearance of the place.” 

” 1 never quite understood the matter,” said Allan to my father; 
” 1 was very young at the time it happened. How was it?” 

” It was a very simple business, to my mind,” ans^wered my fa- 
ther. ‘‘ The last Erlesmere at the Hall— Sir Walter — w-^as a childless 
man. The. estates are all entailed; but he hated his next of kin — 
some remote cousin, not a very admirable character, from all I hear. 
He tried to cut off tUe entail, and made a will bequeathing all his 
fortune to a friend whom he had loved very dearly. Of course, the 
legitimate heir disputed tlie will. The suit was prolonged by his 
death, and his son, whom you call Sir Victor, carried it on. In my 
opinion there should have been no question as to the justice of the 
thing.” . • 

” Miss Hamber,” cried Allan, ” are you cold or tired?” 

He, as well as myself, had noticed the shudder which suddenly 
passed over my sister and blanched her face. 


14 


MY SISTER KATE. 


CHAPTER II. 

I MUST relate my sister’s story, not as 1 remember it, but as it hap- 
pened. Some of the details are impressed on my mind never to be 
forgotten, others have no home in my niemory. 

Lord Morven was at home, and issued invitations for a grand ball 
to be given at the Castle in honor ot Lady JVlorven’s birthday. Kate 
of course was to go. My father promised to escort her, and Allan 
obtained permissiofi from his imperious lady-love to accompany 
them. J\Iy father was very anxious witlurcgard to Kate’s appear- 
ance. She came in to kiss me before starting, and I thought she 
looked like a dream of loveliness. 1 cannot describe her dress; to 
me it appeared like a soft fleecy cloud. 1 saw diamonds shining in 
the dark hair and on the white neck; 1 knew then that my father 
had given her the costly jewels that once belonsced to his first wife. 
A scarlet opera cloak covered her white shoulders. YVlien she took 
me in her arms to kiss me, 1 wondered whether the fragrance that 
seemed to float around her came from the bouquet she carried or the 
beautiful hair that waved from her forehead. 

1 know now that she was introduced that evening to Sir Victor 
Erlesmere, and that he fell in love with her. 

The next mornina:, child as I was, 1 noticed something new m my 
sister’s face— a softer light in her brilliant eyes, a sweeter smile on 
her proud lips. After breakfast she came with me into the garden. 
She sat in the shade of a large flowering lilac tree; 1 played near 
lier. She was interested as usual in my amusements; an open book 
lay on her knee; but her eyes, with a tender musing gaze, were bent 
upon the clear lake, wiiile a happy smile lingered on her lips. 

When we had been there some time, 1 saw Allan Charlton com- 
ing to join us. As 1 sprung into his arms to kiss him, I saw that 
his dear face was clouded and pale. 

“ Good-morning, Miss Ilamber,” he said, with a stift bow to Kate. 

“ You do not look fatigued after your exertiobs last evening.” 

“There is nothing fatiguing,” she answered, with a smile, “in 
being very happy and dancing to such excjuisile music as we had 
last nisht. ” 

“ I noticed that you danced several times with our new neighbor 
Sir Victor Erlesmere,” said poor Allan, trying to speak iudiJferently. 

“ Do you like him?” 

1 believe the sharp plunge of a dagger would have pained him 
less than the sight of the beautiful glow that overspread her face. 


MY SISTEK KATE. 


15 


“ \es,” she replied, softly; “ Hike him; keis very different from 
any one 1 know.” 

Just then my father joined us. 

“ Are you discussing the ball?” he asked. 

‘‘ We are speaking of Sir Victor Erlsemere,” answered Allan. 

” Ah,” said my father slowly, ‘‘ 1 do not quite like him! If he 
Avere not an Erlsemere, 1 should say he was not a gentleman.” 

- “How can 3^ou say that, papa?” remonstrated Kale. “ He is 
clever and accomplished.” 

” So he is,” acquiesced my father; “ but still there is something 
in his face that 1 do not like. He gives me an idea of strength withr 
out refinement, of courage without gentleness; and, despite what 
you say of his accomplishments, Kate, he seems to me to retain 
traces of having mixed in low society and of having had low habits.” 

” Some allowance must be made for him,” put in Allan gen- 
erously, ” from the fact that his father was but a very distant rela- 
tive of the Erlsemeres, although he was next of kin. He got his liv- 
ing by betting, or some connection with the turf; his son cannot be 
expected to fall all at once into the habits of good society.” 

Kate never looked more kindly- at Allan than at that moment. 

‘‘It is that very power and strength, papa,” she said, quiet I}’, 
” that 1 like. The most admirable traits of character are lost upon 
me unless accompanied by ^uch qualities. Strength of mind, of 
will, and of thought are the characteristics 1 admire most.” 

The gentle, refined face looking so wistfully beside her fell as she 
spoke— perhaps poor Allan realized then that he was not her ideal. 
A smile crossed my father’s face as he saw the footman advancing 
with a card upon the salver he held in his hand. 

“ Talk of your neighbor,” hesaidgajdy, “ and your neighbor aj)- 
pears! Ask Sir Victor Erlesmere it he will join us here,” ue add- 
ed, turning to the servant; ‘‘ the morning is really too beautiful 
to be spent indoors.” 

A lew minutes later 1 saw a tall figure coming straight down 
the garden path. 

‘.‘Come here. Clary!” called Kate. 

' She took me into her arms more as a screen for her own blush-, 
ing face than tor anything else. 1 felt the tumultuous beating of 
her heart, and 1 saw the burning flush that mounted to her brow. 
Ah, me, her heart had never so beaten for poor Allan Charlton, 
her face had never so changed for him! 

Sir Victor bowed low as he' touched my sister’s trembling hand. 


MY SISTEK KATE. 


U 

He commenced an animated conversation with my father, and 1 
amused myself by watching his face. 

Sir Victor Erlesmere was what some would call a handsome 
man. He was very tall, with a pair of fine broad shoulders; his 
face was dark— ah,' so different from the refined face of Allan Charl- 
ton! He wore a dark mustache and a dark beard; his hair was 
black, short, and stiff— difierent again from the soft brown waves 
that covered Allan’s head; his eyes too were black— they were im- 
penetrable eyes— one could not read them; his white shapely hand 
was indicative of strength. 

Kate had a pretty little King Charles spaniel, “ a perfect little 
beauty ” everybody called him, and she made a great pet of him. 
Floss was divided in his aftectioiis between his mistress and Allan 
Charlton; he seemed to love one almost as well as the other. 1 have 
often thought since what true instincts Floss and 1 had. We both 
disliked Sir Victor. The dog barked and sniflied round him in a 
perfect fury; he never made friends with him— nor did 1, although 
1 knew him for years. 

Kate gradually recovered her self-possession, and began fo join in 
the conversation. Soon she and Sir Victor went to see some favor- 
ite roses of hers. Allan’s burning eyes followed them; he looked 
wretched. 1 went to him and climbed upon his knee. 

“ Allan,” I said, “ whj'^ do you look so? What is the matter?” 

” Nothing, Clary,” he answered gently; ‘‘it is only an old, old 
pain.” 

Will he stay long?” 1 continued, nodding at the tall figure 
bending over Kate’s flowers. 

“ 1 don’t know, darling. Why do you ask? Do you not like 
him?” 

“No,” 1 said. “ 1 like you, Allan— no one else.” 

He clasped me in his arms; and 1 know that my quiet but deep 
dislike of his rival made Allan love me better than ever. 

He rose presently, and, bowing to my sister, left the Grange with- 
out a word. 1 did not understand his troubles then; but 1 longed 
intensely to follow him, and try to comfort him. 

Sir Victor prolonged his morning-call far beyond the recognized 
time. He apologized for it, saying that it w'as long since he had 
seen flowers he admired so much, and, as he intended to build new 
conservatories at, the Hall, he was naturally interested. Further 
than that, he asked my father it he would honor him with a visit 
and inspect some of the designs he had received; and in requesting 
this 1 am obliged to confess that Sir Victor Erlesmere touched 


MY SISTER KATE. 


17 


Squire Hamber on one ot his weakest points. My dear father had a 
great fondness for experiments of every kind, and in these new 
conservatories he saw ample scope for Eome of his latest ideas. It 
was, therefore, with great cordiality that he accepted the invitation 
and promised to take luncheon at the Hall on the following day. 

Kate’s face clouded and brightened as he did so, for she had list- 
ened with the deepest interest to the little conversation. 

When 1 was alone with her, watching the crimson blush fade 
away from her cheeks after Sir Victor’s farewell, 1 said to her; 

“ Kate, do you like that tall dark man you have been talking to 
all the morning?” 

“ Jealous little Clary!” , she answered. ” Have I forgotten to 
speak to my pet?” 

‘‘lam not jealous,” 1 replied, resenting the idea. “ But do you 
like that man?” 

‘‘Shall you be very angry if 1 say ‘ Y es, ’ little sister?” asked 
Kate, with a bright smile. 

” 1 should not be angry,” 1 answered sedately — ” only sorry, be- 
cause 1 do not like him; and 1 am sure Allan does not.” 

She kissed me in reply, and whispered that she loved me so much 
1 must try to like all her friends; and so 1 was bought over. 

The next day my father rode over to the Hall. When he re- 
turned, Kate and I were alone in the library. 

‘‘ AVell, papa,” she said, eagerly, ‘‘ how have you got on?” 

‘‘ Very well, my dear,” he answered. ‘‘ Sir Victor has some 
splendid designs. I advised him to select Hunter’s. 1 have a the- 
ory of my own with regard to glass roofs, and 1 have half persuad-/ 
ed him lo adopt it. ” 

‘‘ Do you like him better than you did?” she asked shyly. 

” Well, I hardly know,” was the vague reply. ‘‘ The man seems 
ali right; but he is not a gentleman, Kate, although he tries hard 
to appear one. ” 

My sister made no remark. Presently my father said. 

” Sir Victor is coming to dine with us to-morrow. 1 was almost 
obliged to invite him; he wishes to have the advantage of consult- 
ing a lady’s taste with respect to his improvements at the Hall. He 
will bripg a whole bundle of. plans, et mtera, for your inspection.” 

He watched her face^intenlly as he spoke; he did not look happy 
when he saw the bright vivid flush. 

” How strange!” she murncured. ” 1 have no taste for that kind 
of thing, papa; he will be disappointed in me.” 

‘‘ That is not very likely;” said my father dryly. 


18 


MY SISTEli KATE. 


Was it jealousy for Allan’s dear sake that made me watch Kate 
so closely, even to begging to remain with her while she dressed for 
dinner? 

One costly dress after another was thrown aside; none would 
suit. Lisette, the pretty French maid who had been with my sister 
many years, looked puzzled. 

“ Will.notliing satisfy ma’m’selle to-day?” 1 heard Lisette mutter- 
ing from the depths of a large closet containing innumerable boxes. 

But, when the simple and cxi^uisite toilet was completed, Lisette 
forgot her vexation in admiration. J^ever had Kate looked so beau- 
tilul. Her dress was of plain white silk; one gold bracelet shone on 
her arm, a light gold chain was fastened round her neck, and a 
white rose nestled in her hair. Even my father, who seldom noticed 
her dress, smiled approval as she came into the drawu'ng-room. 

That evening was to me a weary repetition of the morning on 
the lawn. My sister forgot me; she was engrossed in Sir Victor. 
Xlis dark face was all smiling as he listened to her singing and 
talked to her in the evening gloaming. It may have been very de- 
lightful to them; but it was dull enough tor us who saw that even- 
ing that our darling was no longer our own. 


CHAPTER 111. 

So it became gradually known that Sir Victor Erlesmere was des 
perately in love with beautiful Kat(! Hamber. Whether his suit 
would prosper or noi few ventured to say; that fastidious young- 
lady had refused Allan Charlton, who was a richer man and a more 
attractive one. But Sir Victor was very much in earnest. W'hat- 
ever might be his deficiency in other matters, he certainly under- 
stood how to make love. His attentions were very different from 
Allan’s gentle chivalrous devotion. Never a morning passed with- 
out my sister’s receiving a beautiful bouquet of flowers with the 
dew-drops glistening on them. He gathered them himself, not trust- 
ing anything so precious to other hands. 

Every morning brought him to the Grange. Sometimes he had a 
new book that he thought would suit Kate, sometimes a sketch or a 
song; he spared neither time nor trouble in gratifying the lightest 
wifth she expressed. 

He had a way too of taking possession of her, as it were. If he 
stood behind her chair or sat by her side, no one ventured to disturb 
or to join them. All the hpmage that could be expressed in look, 
words or manner, was always forthcoming from him. 


:MY STSTEK KATE. 


10 


It was easy to sec that my sister’s heart was touched at last. The 
tones of his voice, the sound of ins footsteps, the mention of his 
name, even by inditterent lips, brought the rich color into her face. 
"What Allan had spent years in trying to win, and trying in vain, 
tlie stranger had made his own. Kate loved him. 

1 should think few men have suffered more than Allan Charlton 
suffered then, lie could n(,t help seeing that the hope he had cher- 
ished for so long was blighted now. The girl whose love was the 
prize upon which every energy of his heart was bent was won by 
another. His ej^es followed her with a look of mingled sorrow and 
jealousy that was sad to see. Yet he was so noble and brave in his 
sorrow. 

Sir Victor had gradually gained admittance into all the best 
houses in the neighborhood. He was not so much sought after 
since he had so publicly shown that he was “ one of Miss Hamber’s 
lovers.” Mothers with a large family of marriageable daughters 
did not press him now to “ drop in during the evening and hear 
dear Laura’s,” or “dear Evelina’s,” or “dear Amy’s,” “new 
song;” but he was a member of the Hunt, he visited at Morven 
Castle, and he issued invitations for a grand archery fHe in. the 
beautiful grounds.of the Hall. He was rather a favorite than other- 
wise, still no one seemed to know much of him— he Lad no intimate 
friends, and his servants were not so ready to gossip as servants gen- 
erally are. One or two people said he had a furious temper, and was 
subject to fits of savage rage, during which he spared no livinir creat- 
ure that was in his power. But no trace of this was ever seen on 
the dark, smiling face, or in the urbane polished manner which dis- 
tinguished him. 

Sir Victor had a beautiful black retriever called Lion; and a splen- 
did specimen of his kind Lion w^as. Plis master was both fond and 
proud of him; he never went out without his dog; this faithful 
animal followed him everywhere. Kate, who was fond of dogs, 
liked Lion better than her own little favf»rite Floss; the beautiful 
creature would sit with its bright large eyes fixed on her face ready 
to do her slightest bidding. Perhaps she liked him so well because 
lie always heralded the approach of his master. 'Vhen the loud joy- 
ous burking was heard, one knew that Sir Victor was not far be- 
hind. 

One morning, when Sir Victor made his usual visit, Lion was not 
with him. Kate looked up quite anxiously. 

“ Wher^e is your dog Lion?” she asked, when she had bidden 
him “Good-morning.” 


20 


MY SISTER KATE. 


An uneasy look, wnich 1 saw plainly, crossed his face. 

1 came out alone,” he answered, with a feeble kind of smile; 
and no more was said about the animal. 

The day after, for the first time, he omitted his usual visit to the 
Grange. When he next appeared, Kate was too anxious concerning 
him to note that poor Lion was still absent. 

So time passed on; bright summer gave way to golden-tinted 
autumn; and then Sir Victor Erlesmere laid his title and fortune 
at my sister’s feet. 

1 remember the day quite well. 1 had been out playing with the 
dead leaves under the trees, and felt tired and cold. 1 went into 
the drawing-room, where 1 knew 1 should find a good fire. My 
sister raised her head from Sir Victor’s shoulder as I went in; her 
beautiful face was wet with tears. Kegardless of my presence, he 
kissed them away. When they saw me, Kate took me in her arms, 
and Sir Victor held out his, wishing me to go to him. 

” Claribel,” he said, ” will you try to love me? I am going to 
be your brother.” 

‘‘ Allan Charlton is my brother,” 1 said rudely; ” 1 do not want 
another.” 

Sir Victor smiled, and Kate looked angry at my w^ant of good 
manners. She spoke crossly to me; but her lover interposed. 

“Nay,” he said; ”1 like: to see how true Clary is to her old 
friends; when she know's me better, perhaps she will love me more. ' 

1 ielt certain that between them they would make Allan miserable. 
While 1 stood at the window Wtitching the whirling leaves, my sis- 
ter and her lover standing in earnest conversation at the other end 
of the room, I saw^ Allan coming up to the house. 1 ran out to 
meet him. 

” Where is your papa. Clary?” he asked. 

” lie has gone to Reading,” 1 answered, all anxiety to tell my 
news; ” but that tiresome Sir Victor is herein the drawing-room 
w’ith Kate. She cried, and he kissed her tears away — I saw him!” 

Allan made no reply to this piece of childish indiscretion; but 1 
saw his face grow white even to the lips. He turned abruptly 
away, and w^ent into the garden. I followed him, and found him 
standing leaning against a tree. 

” Sir Victor,” I began; but Allan held up his hand, while a sharp 
spasm of pain crossed his face. 

‘‘ Hush, child!” he said. ” 1 can bear no more.” 

He remained there at least an hour; and I stood silently by his 


MY SISTER KATE. 


21 


side, ever and anon kissing his cold hand, and wondering at his 
wild white face. Presently a musical voice called : 

“ Clary, where are you? 1 am all alone now.” 

There was something new in that dear voice, a fresh ring as of 
deep happiness and unutterable joy. in another moment Kate saw 
me and my silent companion. 

” Allan. ”'she cried, ‘‘ 1 did not know you were here! AVhy did 
you not come in?” 

” 1 would not intrude,” he said bitterly. ” 1 knew who your 
companion was. Oh, Kate, be merciful, and let me know the worst 
at once! Is there no shadow of hope left for me?” 

” None,” she answered gently. ‘‘ Dear Allan^ why do you grieve 
me and yourself?” 

‘‘ Tell me,” he said impatiently, ” are you betrothed to Sir Victor 
Erlesmere?” 

“ Yes,” she returned, ‘‘ 1 am.” 

” Thank you tor your candor, Kate. Have patience with me one 
moment longer. Does your father know it?” 

‘‘Jsot yet,” she answered. ” Sir Vidor is coming to see him this 
evening. Dear Allan, dear friend, do not cloud my happiness.” 

” Are you so happy, then, Kate?” he inquired mournfully. ” Do 
you love him so much?” 

” Yes,” she said, clasping her hands; ” all my life is centered in 
my love, Allan.” 

” Then 1 pray your happiness may continue, Kate. 1 shall go 
away; 1 could not bear to stop and see what will torture and darken 
my life. 1 shall not even come back to the Grange again. Your 
father will not be surprised; he knows how 1 have waited and 
ijoped. May 1 speak a few words to you? May 1 give you one 
warning before 1 leave you?” 

Yes,” said Kate, gently. ” Say wdiat you will, Allan.” 

” Then let me warn you, as 1 would my dearest sister, to be cau- 
tious, and to make some inquiries as to Sir Victor’s character before 
you trust him with the happiness of your life. There are strange 
lumorsin Clifton of his savage temper and uncontrollable fury 
Remember his training, his constant intercourse with degraded nat- 
ures; remember the instincts of your father, a man of years and 
experience, and your sister, an innocent child, are against him* 
Ih-omise me, by the great love 1 have borne you, that you will be 
careful.” 

” 1 do promise,” she said, with a bright smile so full of tender- 
ness and love that it made poor Allan wince. ” 1 promise earnestly. 


22 


MY 8ISTKU KATE. 


How anxious you are lor me, .Allan! At the same time, 1 know 
that neither caution nor care is reuuiied. 1 know there-Are preju- 
dices against ISir Victor, because he is a stranger and has not been 
t'roughl up amongst us. 1 do not share them,” she added proudly; 

” 1 have lull trust in him.” 

” Kale,” said Allan, ” will you ask him one question?” 

‘‘ Yes,” she answered — ” twenty, if you like. ” 

‘‘ One will do,” he remarked. ” The next time he talks about 
loving you and making you happy, ask. him what he has done with 
his lavorite dog; will you?” 

“Yes,” my sister answered, w’ith a laugh. Then, seeing his 
white sorrovvful lace, she cried, ” Oh, Allan, how 1 wdsh we could 
all be happy! It makes me wretched to think of you.” 

” Then forget me, dear,” he said tenderly; ” it is not your fault 
that you can not love me. You are not to blame that the love for 
which I would have sacrificed my life is given to another.”- 

” Are you really going away?” she asked, the tears dimming her 
eyes at the thought. 

” Yes; it will best for me, for you, for us all.” 

” Oh, Allan,” sne cried again, ” how 1 wish you could be -«atis- » 
fied with the love and friendship 1 give j’^ou!” 

” 1 can not,” he said. ‘‘ 1 ask for bread, and you offer me a stone. 
Good-by, Rate! Jf the time ever comes when you want a friend to 
aid and counsel you, 1 shall be here. Good-by, Clary! Give this 
last kiss to 3 mur sister tor me.” 

He pressed my lips fOr a moment; then he w^as gone; and Kate, 
even in the midst of her bewildering love-dream, cried aloud for the 
lost friend who had loved her so dearly. 

Before noon on the following day Allan Charlton had left the 
Towers. Ah, it we could but have seen how and when w^e three 
should meet again! That same evening Sir Victor’ Erlesmere called 
to see my father. It was nearly nine when he came, and -we were 
just taking tea in the drawMng-room w’hen his ring sounded through 
the quiet house. 

” Visitors!” cried my father. ” Why, Kate, who can this be?” 

” it is Sir Victor.” she answered; ” he told me he was coming fo 
call on you this evening.” 

” It is not a very convenient time,” said my father. ” 1 am tired 
after my day’s ride. What can the man w\aul?”^ 

A mischievous smile curled Kate’s beautiful lips. The footman 
brought a message to say that Sir Victor Erlesmere requested the 
favor of being- alio WAd to see Mr. Hamber alone in his study. 


MY SISTER KATE. 


■^i3 

“ Dear me, how tiresome! Kate, what can be the matter? 1 ex- 
pect it is that poaching business again. 1 shall be quite firm;’ the 
Game Laws must be respected. ” 

Kate laughed merrily as my father quitted the room. He was ab- 
sent some time. AVhen he returned, he looked more anxious and 
careworn than 1 had ever seen him look before. He went up to my 
sister, and held her tor a moment in his arms. 

“ What does this mean, Kate?” he said at length, with quivering 
lips. ‘‘ Do you wish to leave me?” 

She rested her head upon his shoulder. 

“ Ko, papa, darling,” she answered tenderly. “ You will have 
one child more, not one less.” 

“It is so sudden,” he said— ” to me, at least. 1 suppose you 
know that Sir Victor is here asking my permission to make you his 
wife? What must I say?” 

” What I said myself, papa. Say ‘ Yes,’ ” she replied, with a 
smile. 

He paced the room in deep thought for a few minutes; then he 
placed both his hands upon her shoulders and looked earnestl}^ into 
her face. 

‘M do not quite like this, Kate,” he said. ” 1 hardly know 
enough of this man to intrust my precious child to him. 1 have a 
prejudice against him, a secret instinct that warns me to beware of 
him. Could you not give him up, or wait another year or two until 
we see more of him?” 

” 1 shall never give him up, papa.” 

Her voice w'as clear, calm, and decided. 

‘‘ Is your happiness so deeply involved, Kate?” asked mj father. 

“Not onl}’’ my happiness,” she said, ‘‘ but my life also.” 

” Then 1 yield,” replied my father. ” So far as worldly prospects 
go, you have done well, Kate. You will be Lady Erlesmere, and 
mistress of one of the finest estates in the county. But for your 
happiness 1 can say nothing. Sir Victor is a stranger; and report 
does not speak altogether favorably of him.” 

‘‘lam satisfied, papa. If he had not one penny, I would rather 
be his wife than be a queen!” 

‘‘ If matters have reached that stage, all interference would be 
useless. Well, Heaven bless you, Kate, and make you happy! Poor 
Allan! It was to be, 1 suppose. Go down to Sir Victor, my dear. 
1 promised that you should take my answer.” 

It seemed strange to me then, and it puzzles me now, how my 
beautiful gifted sister could prefer a man like Sir Victor Erlesmcrg 


24 • 


MY SISTEH KATE. / 


to a noble chivalrous gentleman like Allan Charlton. The little god 
is proverbially blind, and he was never blinder than in this case. 

In about an hour Sir Victor and his betrothed joined us. 

We were not a very sociable party. My father sat at his read- 
ing-table engrossed with a book; the two lovers were seated at the 
center-table, to all appearance looking over some rare engravings. 
I was happy enough at Kate’s teet. Suddenly she seemed to remem- 
ber something, and, turning abruptly to her lover, said: 

“ Victor, what have yoa done with Lion?” 

If a pistol had been unexpectedly held to his head, he could not 
have looked more astounded or more afraid. A livid pallor over- 
spread bis face. With a violent effort he recovered himself. 

“ I did not like to tell you before,” he said; “ the tact is, 1 was 
obliged to— to shoot him.” 

“Why?” asKed Kate wistfully. 

” He was hurt,” he answered. ” Do not talk about it. 1 have 
grieved over poor Lion.” 

” And }^ou wished to spare me,” said Kate, ” knowing that 1 
liked him so well. How good you are, Victor!” Then she mur- 
mured to herself, “ What could Allan mean?” 

Two months afterward my sister Kate was married. It was a 
grand wedding, grander than anything of the kind ever seen in Clif- 
ton before. 

The beauty and grace of the bride formed the general theme of 
conversation. But no one said much with respect to the bride- 
groom, my dear Kate’s chosen husband. 

Before the spring blossoms came again Sir Victor and Lady Erles- 
mere had taken up their abode at the Hall. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Three months after Kate’s marriage my dear father had a long 
and dangerous illness. When he recovered, his physicians strongly 
recommended travel and a winter in Italy; so we bade adieu to our 
quiet home, and autumn saw us settled in that most beautiful of 
Italian cities, Venice. There my father quickly recovered health 
and strength; and we were so happy that our return to England was 
delayed from time to time until w^e had been absent nearly four 
years. 

Allan Chafltpn, who w^s wandering over the Continent, joined 


^[Y SISTER KATE. 


25 


US. He was delighted to find something like an English home es- 
tablished in one ot the grand old Venetian palaces. AVe talked to- 
gether long and often, but no mention was ever made of home or 
of my sister. 

Those bright Venetian days! 1 look back upon them now with 
lingering, loving regret. They influenced my future life. How 
little 1 thought, while luxuriating in that sunny clime, of the dark 
tragedy even then looming over my sister Kate! 

We returned to England after an absence of nearly four years. 
We had half thought that Kate might be at the Grange to welcome 
us. We heard from her constantly while we were abroad; latterly 
she did not-often mention Sir Victor. At lirst her letters had been 
weaiisome, for they contained nothing but praises of him and of his 
kindness to her; lately all tUat had ceased, and his name rarely* 
occurred. About a year before our return, my sister’s son — little 
Paul, as he was called, after my father — was born, and then Kate’s 
letters were one long rhapsody over him. 1 was so anxious to see 
the little heir of Erlesmere that 1 could hardly wait with paliem!e 
until the following morning. My father said we should go over to 
the Hall the first thing. 

1 have never forgotten the shock 1 received when 1 saw my dar- 
ling sislei’ Kate again. When we reached the Hall, we found Sir 
Victor absent. My fathei; told the footman that he need not an- 
nounce us; we went silently together into Lady Erlesmere’s own 
sitting-room. Kate was writing as we entered; the light fell full 
upon her face. Ah me, how changed it was! The bright girlish 
beauty, the arch, half-tender, half-sad expression that had once lin- 
gered there, were gone. The dimples that used to appear in the 
lovely cheeks, the light of the proud dark eyes, were gone too. It 
was a beautiful woman who rose to greet us, but one on whose brow 
care and sorrow were written most ^clearly. She seemed delighted 
beyond measure to see us. She held me tightly clasped in her arms, 
and kissed my face as though she could never let me go from her. 

“Little Clary,’’ she cried again and again, “it does my heart, 
good to see you!’’ 

“You do not look well, my bonny Kate,” said my father. “You 
are very thin, and your face is changed. My darling, are you 
happy?” 

The crimson flush mounted even to her brow. 

“ Happy, papa!” she answered evasively. “ Wait until you have 
seen my baby! I will ring for him.” 


26 


MY SISTKlt KATE. 


“ 1 suppose,” said my father, with a smile, ” there is no other 
child like him?” 

“No,” she replied; “ he is all lire world to me.” 

I never saw a more beautiful child than little Paul. He was, 
strange to say, quite unlike either of his parents. He had a fair rosy 
face, with large wondering blue eyes, sweet rosy lips, and a little 
head covered with curls of the palest gold color. He was unlike 
them too in disposition. He had neither the spirit of his mother nor 
the proud temper of his father; lie was singularly sweet, gentle and 
yielding. He could both walk and talk a little. One of the 
proudest moments of my life w’as when his little arms were clasped 
round my neck and his sweet little lips were pressed against mine. 

How Kate loved that boy! While he was with us, her eyes never- 
left his face; her whole being seemed lost in him. 

” Where is Sir Victor?” asked my father, w^hen we had admired 
and caressed the child. 

“He is somewhere in the grounds with his steward,” replied 
Kate. ” I will send word to him that you are her-e.” 

Even as she spoke, a loud angry voice was heard in the hall. I 
saw my sister turn pale when she heard it. 1 noticed too how anx- 
ious she was to get the child out of the room before her husband 
came in. 

1 had never liked Sir Victor, and, when tor the hrst time 1 saw 
his face darkened with an angry frown, 1 liked him less than ever. 
He greeted us kindly, but never addressed one word to Kate. 

” I have been in a great rage this morning,” he said to my father, 
as though oftering an explanation of his loud tones. ” One of my 
stupid gardeners has cut down a tree that 1 would not have lost on 
any account, I think servants become more unendurable every 
day!” And, to my great surprise and disgust, he ended his speech 
with a coarse oath. 

My father looked as he felt, shocked and indignant. Seeing my 
startled face. Sir Victor said: 

“ 1 beg your pardon, Miss Clary; but it is so annoying — no man 
could help swearing.” 

” More apology is due to Lady Ellesmere than to me,” I rejoined 
indignantly. 

” Lady Erlesmere, from long habit, has grown accustomed to 
such little eccentricities.” said Kate, with a proud bitter smile. 

He turned round furiously, when my father interposed by asking 
them to dinner that evening; and soon afterward w^e took our 
leave. 


31 Y SJ6TEK KA'l'K. 


27 


'V^^llen'we reached home, my father sat for some time with his 
face buried in his hands. He spoke no word ; but 1 knew his heart 
was aching for my poor sister, who looked so sad and so wretched 
in her magnificent home. 

“ Just as I thought it would bel” 1 heard him murmur to him- 
self. “ Poor child; if she could but have loved Allan!” 

But, happy or wretched, Kate never said one word to us. I never 
saw any one so miserably altered; all her bright gay spirits were 
gone, the sparkling wit that used to charm and enliven us all had 
disappeared; in place of my beautiful radiant sister, who had been ' 
a queen amongst us, there was a pale, proud, silent woman, whos(i 
heart and feelings seemed dead to all save her boy. She never com- 
plained, she never named her husband; but one look at her face was 
enough — heartache was in every line of it. 1 have seen her sit silent 
and cold for hours together, her eyes fixed with a yearning wistful 
look on the clear summer sky, and^l knew that sorrow and w^rong 
were making sad havoc in that proud yet loving heart. My father 
never spoke of her to me; but he looked miserable whenever her 
name w'as mentioned. 

Strange stories of Sir Victor were abroad. Some of them 1 heard 
from gossiping servants w^ho told me of his wild life. In the deep 
silence of tho quiet night, when the villagers had long retired to 
rest, the furious gallop of a horse would be heard in the deserted 
streets. People would say, ‘‘ There goes Sir Victor! Poor wretched 
horse!” Rumors of his mad orgies and low habits were afloat; but, 
whatever was said, my sister remained as silent as tbe grave. What 
we knew we heard from others or guessed from her face. His name 
never passed her lips. My father respected her reserve too much 
to attempt to break through it. 

As soon as we were settled once more at home, 1 went every day 
to visit my sister and her little boy. 1 seldom saw Sir Victor, he 
appeared to spend little time at home. 1 never inquired lor him, 
and Kate never volunteered any information as to his whereabouts. 
I often remained all night with her, for at times she seemed so lone- 
ly and wretched that I could not bear to leave her. 

” Why do you not go out more, Kate?” 1 asked her one day. ” I 
have heard that you constantly refuse all invitations. Change of 
scene would cheer you up. You'used to be so lond of society.” 

“ ‘ Used to be ' and ‘ are ’ are very different things,” she replied- 
” 1 do not accept invitations because 1 can not give any in return ” 

” Why not?” 1 inquired. ” You have a beautiful bouse, splendid 


28 


MY SISTER KATE. 


plate, plenty of servants, and ample means. If 1 were in your 
place, 1 would go to parties and give parties too.” 

She smiled without speaking. I knew afterward that she had 
been obliged to give up asking people to the house, and the reason 
why. 

One morning — I remember it so well — we were going through the 
plantation as our nearest way home. Little Paul ran on before us. 
The plantation was in the private grounds of Erlesmere Park. Kate 
liked the place, and it was her favorite promenade. 1 used to won- 
der at it, for 1 thought It very dull. The dark tapering firs, through 
which the wind moaned with a sad wailing music, filled me with 
awe. 

It was here that Kate liked to linger. There was an old trunk of 
a tree that had fallen years before. It was now covered with soft 
green moss; and here my sister would sit listening to the moaning 
of the wind until Paul and I grew impatient and tired of waiting. 
The little fellow used to call it “ mamma’s chair,” and on this par- 
ticular morning, as we entered the plantation, he came running back 
to us. 

” Mamma,” he said, ” some one has your chair — an ugly old 
woman — and she will not get up.” 

Sure enough, seated on the moss-covered trunk, we discovered an 
old woman. When we drew near her, I saw that she was an old 
haggard-looking gypsy. Kate, who was always kind and gentle to 
her inferiors, went up to her. 

” Do you know,” she said gently, “that you are trespassing? 
This is private ground. If the keepers see you, you may get into 
trouble.” 

The woman looked angrily at 1 er. 

” And who are you, my fine lady,” she said, ” to order me oflF?” 

” lam Lady Erlesmere,” replied Kate. ” I speak only for your 
own sake. You look very ill and wretched; can I relieve you?” 

‘‘Relieve me,” said the gypsy. ‘‘No; only revenge and death 
will do that. So you are Lady Erlesmere, are you?” 

She fixed her eyes boldly on my sister’s pale face. 

‘‘You are Lady Erlesmere, and that is your son and his heir, I sup- 
pose? My daughter was handsomer than you. She lies with her 
boy in the depths of the, cold river.- You are well and happy; but 
it will be more equal soon— more equal soon!” she muttered. 

Kate took a few shillings from her purse, and placed them in the 
old woman’s hand. 


MY SISTER KATE. 


20 


“Get yourself something to eat,” she said, you look hungry 
and cold, poor thing!” 

“Is this Ellesmere money?” cried the old woman. “It it was 
your own, bouuy lady, 1 would keep it; because it is his, I fling it 
where, it there is justice, he will soon lie!” 

She threw the money violently from her, and went away. To 
my surprise, when she rose, there was no appearance of decrepitude^ 
about her. Her figure was tall and erect; it was only her face that 
looked so old and haggard. ... | 

“ What a strange woman!” 1 said. 1 

Kate made no reply; her face had grown pale, and there was a 
proud angry light in her eye. 

We overlook Sir Victor just as we came to the Hall gates. He 
took little Paul in his arms and carried him. 

“ Victor, is there a gypsy-camp in the neighborhood?” Kate 
asked. 

“ 1 do not know,” he answered, looking rather startled. “ Why 
do 5'ou ask me?” 

“ Because "vye saw a gypsy* woman about, and she seemed so wild 
that 1 felt nervous. ” 

W’ithout another word, he put the child down, and strode away 
in the direction of the woods. Kate looked after him in some sur- 
prise, b'lit made no remark; and then we entered the house over 
which so dark a shadow was looming. 


CHAPTER y. 

It was beautiful spring weather, and we spent— that is, Kate, lit- 
tle Paul, and myself— the greater part of each day out in the woods 
and fields. 

One morning my father received a letter which seemed to give 
him great delight. 

“ Pussy,” he said to me, “ here is good news for you! Your old 
friend Allan is coming back to the Towers.” 

“ Papa,” 1 exclaimed, “ can it be true? 1 am so pleased! When 
will he be iiere?” 

“ I should not be surprised to see him some time this morning,” 
he replied; “ he was in London yesterday when he wrote this.” 

1 ran away, full of glee, to tell Kate. When 1 reached the Hall, 
Lisette told me her lady had gone on to the Hurst Road with the 
child, and wished me to follow her, . 


30 


MT SISTEK IvATE. 


Off I went, wondering why she had gone without me. BetW( en 
the green budding trees I soon saw the white gleam of her dress. 
Little Paul ran to meet me, and 1 nodded to my sisfer while i 
kissed and greeted him. Every detail of that scene is imprinted on 
my mind— the quiet fresh spring morning, the trees unfolding their 
leaves, the golden primroses and purple violets in their shady nooks. 
1 can recall my sister’s face as she stood waiting to speak to me, 
watching the caresses her hoy was showering upon me. 

Suddenly a hasty footstep was heard coming from the wood. We 
both turned quickly, and saw Sir Victor approaching us, his face 
perfectly furious with rage. My sister turned deadly white; she 
caught hold of the child and held him in her arms. 

“You are here, are you?” shouted my brother-in-law in a loud 
angry voice, . “ Why can’t you slay at home? I’ve been searching 
the house for you.” 

A light as of gentle patience came into her sweet sad eyes. 

“ I came out with Paul for a walk,” she said softly. 

“ No excuses 1” he growled. “ 1 want to know who spilled the 
ink in my study this, morning; it has run all over that new map' of 
the estate.' They tell me you -have been writing there. Did you do 
it?” 

“ If 1 did,” she replied, gently, “ 1 was unconscious of it. ^ 1 was 
writing there this morning, and quitted the room hurriedly. If I 
did it, Victor, 1 am. really very sorry for it.” 

“ 1 can never get at the truth in my house, and never shall, 1 sup- 
pose. 1 believe every servant in it is paid to tell me lies?” 

“ You are a naughty, bad man,” broke in a shrill, sweet, childish 
voice, “ to scold niy mamma ’’—and little Paul clasped his arms 
round his mother’s neck. 

“ Hush, darling!” said Kate. “You must not speak so to papa.” 

Sir Victor’s anger was transferred in a moment from his wufe to 
his child. 

“ What is that you say, sir?” he cried. “ Come down and beg 
my pardon, or you wdll repent it!” 

But the little arms were clasped still more tightly round his 
mother. 

“ Do not be angry with him, Victor,” pleaded my sister. “ He 
did not mean to be naughty,” 

“1 will be master of my own child, madam,” he cried, “and 
make him obey mel” 

He seized the trembling little fellow and dragged him from his 
mother’s arms. Sir Victor carried in his hand a slight cane, and 


MY SISTER KATE. 


with this he struck the child violently several times. Poor little 
Paul gave only one ‘cry, and then stood white and still while the* 
cruel strokes fell upon him. 

“ Victor, Victor I” cried my sister, “do not beat him— do not 
hint my child!” 

In her frantic eagerness she flung herself down upon her knees 
and caught hold of his hands. 

“ Ah,” he said, with a sneer, “ lhave made you come down from • 
your pedestal, my lady. In future, if 1 want to humble you a little, 

1 shall know how to proceed: Take the boy; I don’t want to hurt ‘ 
him. Behave yourself, though, for, if ever I want to punish you, 1 
shall first punish him.” 

With these cruel words, he thrust little Paul from him. The 
cliild staggered as he tried to run to his mother, fell, and struck his 
temple against a stone that lay in the path. Sir Victor did not see 
this; he had gone back into the wood again. The whole scene did 
not occupy more than a few minutes. 1 ran to pick up the child- 
To my horror, 1 saw that the golden curls were stained with blor d, 
and that a dark ugly wound marred the sweet white face; thopoor 
little fellow was senseless from the effects of the fall. 

“ Give him to me. Clary!” moaned Kate. “ Oh, my darling, my 
darling!” 

She sat down upon the grass, and took the little child upo»i her 
knee. 

“ Will he die?” she asked, in such a tone of wild despair that my 
heart ached when 1 heai d it. • 

“No,” 1 said; “he is only stunned. Let us get him home as 
quickly as we can; the nearest w^ay is down the high-road and over 
the' fields. Let me carry him. Rate.” 

But no — she would not part with him; she held him tightly 
clasped to her bosom, the golden curls streaming over her shoulder. 

We spoke no word of that scene. Ever and anon a deep sob rose 
to my sister’s lips; while her face was whiter than poor Paul’s. On 
the road we heard the sound of a liorse’s hoofs. 

“ Here is some one coming!” 1 cried. “Now, Kate, we shall 
have help!” 

But what words could paint my surprise and joy when 1 saw 
Allan Charlton, pulling up his horse, and heard him asking eagerly 
what was the matter. 

“ Lady Ellesmere,” he cried, in astonishment, “ what has hap- 
pened? What can I do for you?” 


32 


MY SISTJ^K KATE, 


“ JVly boy has fallen, and is hurt,” said Kate, her lips quiverinp 
as her eyes fell upon Allan’s pitying face. 

** Let me take him home^for you,” he begged. 

” No; 1 can not part with him. If you will go home for me, and 
tell bis nurse tvhat lias happened and ask her to prepare everything, 
1 shall be grateful to you, Allan.” 

“That 1 will!” he cried. “Dear Clary, 1 shall see you this 
evening: at the Grange.” And in another ipoment he was gone. 

1 dared not speak to Kate after he left us— her face was working 
so strangely. 1 was thankful when the little fellow lay at last on 
his pretty white bed. To our great joy, he soon recovered con- 
sciousness; the wound was not a dangerous or even a very painful 
one. The child’s mind was hurt far more than his body. 

“Mamma,” he said, drawing her head down* to him, “please 
don’t tell any one papa beat me.” 

In a few hours he was playing about again, although the blue 
marks still disfigured the fair little arms and shoulders. When 1 
saw that there was no further need of my services, I felt a desire to 
return home, for 1 was longing to see more of Allan Charlton. 

“ Kate, dear,” 1 said, “ I think 1 may go now. Allan wdll dine 
with us, 1 dare say, and p.apa will like me to be at liome. If little 
Paul could go too, 1 should like you to accompany me.” 

But my words brought on a passion of tears. Perhaps a picture 
of the quiet home-life came suddenly before her, perhaps the re- 
membrance of the noble tender heart she had cast from her came 
back to her in this her hour of distress. 1 persuaded her to go to 
her own room and lie down. I took a glass of wine and held it to 
her pale lips, for 1 was frightened — Kate was not one of the crying 
kind. She had shed no tears during her happy girlhood; now the 
violence, the wild abandonment of her grief distressed and alarmed 
me. I could only caress the poor face and gently stroke the luxuri- 
ant hair with my hand. 

“ Hush, darling!” 1 said, at last. “ You will make yourself ill. 
Do not cry so.” 

“ Little Clary,” she cried, “ little sister, let me open my heart; 
it will do me good! 1 am so miserable, so wretched, that 1 hardly 
care to live!” 


.ATT SISTER KATE. 


33 


CHAPTER VI. 

This was the sad stoiy that my sister told me of her married life, 
although 1 had partly guessed it before. For three or four months, 
w’hile the novelty of his love lasted, ‘Sir Victor had been all that was 
kiud and amiable; but gradually old habits regained their influence 
over him; he grew tired of his self-restraint, and my poor sister soon 
found that her husband was of a coarse, common, even brutal nat- 
ure. There was nothing in him to win love and esteem. He was 
not truthful, he was vain and boastful, his temper was something 
quite new and terrible to poor Kate. He soon lost the restraining 
influence of her presence; he swore and cursed until she became 
terrified even at the sound of his voice. Even then he would have 
occasional fits of love and devotion; but those became less and less 
frequent. iSothing restrained him, not even the presence of invited 
guests. For her own sake poor Kate declined all society ; she, who 
had been a belle and a queen, could not endure to be humbled as 
he humbled her. 'When it was all too late, how bitterly she repented 
not having taken Allan’s warning and her father’s advice! She 
had obstinately persisted in placing full trust in this mah who was 
a total stranger to her; she had been ot)Stinate, and would not wait 
to see more of him before she placed the happiness of her life in his 
hands. 

“ Ah, Clary,” she cried, “ how bitterly 1 am punished! But for 
my boy, 1 could not, 1 would not, live— life is a dreary burden! 1 
have sometimes to watch nearly the whole night through— he does 
not like the servants to sit up for him— and then, if he is late and 
has drunk too much, what have I not to bear! Oaths and curses, 
and foul words the meaning of which 1 do not even understand, 
are showered upon me, who never heard an unkind word from my 
father’s lips! 1* tremble it he goes near my boy; in his wild way he 
loves him, yet in his fury he spares nothing and no one. Ah, Clary, 
1 have wept until the fountain of my teais seems dried up? 1 have 
Dome it all for the sake of that time when I did love him and his 
love made the whole world beautiful to me; but what can I do, 
what shall 1 do it he tries to punish me through my child?” 

] could only kiss the weeping face. Then she went on: 

“ If 1 had only known the truth about that poor dog Lion, 1. 
would never have married Victor. I heard it two years ago— never 
mind from whom. Poor Lion loved his master, who took a great 
pride in training him. One day Victor went with his keeper and 


34 


MY SISTER KATE. 


(log into Horst "Wood. He was trying to teach the poor animal 
something it could not or would not learn. He flew into one of his 
flts of furious rajre, and actually beat the faithful creature to death, 
in spite of the entreaties of the keeper. Allan Charlton was near at 
the time, and, hearing a noise, came to see what was the matter. 
Victor had vented his fury then; he stood over his dead favoiite 
with the broken stick in his hand, and looked, when Allan saw him, 
most heartily ashamed of himself. Allan did not quite know the 
truth of the affair, although he guessed it. Victor accused him of 
being a spy upon his actions; he was afraid Allan would tell, and 
for some time he was both ashamed and anxious. Oh, Clary, that 
one incident reveals his character so plainly that, it 1 had known it, 
1 should have been spared the misery. Worst of all, 1 no longer 
love him; when 1 ceased to esteem, I ceased to love. I live in un- 
utterable fear— 1 am more than wretched. 1 can not believe that 1 
was ever light-hearted and gay. In my home. Clary, there is never 
a kind or pleasant word spoken." 

As 1 sat listening to my sister, tar away in the woods 1 heard ihe 
sound of a pistol-shot. 1 wondered to myself who was out shooting 
at that hour, for it was now long past twilight. 1 longed to go 
home, and yet I could not, dare’d not leave the trembling, weeping 
girl alone. Gradually she became calmer, the violent passionate 
w^eeping ceased. 

‘‘ Clary," she said, “ I have opened my heart to you, for 1 must 
have spoken or died; out, darling, guard my secret even as 1 guard 
it m 3 'selt — never repeat one word to my father or any one else. 
Promise me that." 

1 promised; and, to soothe her, 1 began talking of our happy 
Venetian life. 

Presently 1 heard the noise of many footsteps, of doors opening 
and shutting, of heavy feet tramping up the staircase; then Lisette 
hastily entered the room. 

" Where is my lady? Oh, how is she?" she asked, in great agi- 
tation. 

" Better iiow, Lisette," 1 said, wondering at her hurried agitated 
manner 

As soon as my sister caught sight of her she sprung up. 

" Oh, Lisette," she cried, " w'hat is it— what is the matter? Is 
my boy worse?" 

‘‘ No, my lady," was the low reply. ‘‘ It is not the child; it is—" 

‘‘Speak out, Lisette," 1 commanded; ‘‘you are torturing your 
mistress 1" 


MY SISTER KATE. 


35 


“ It is Sir Victor, my lady,” she said. “ He has been found shot 
dead in the woods!” 

****** ^ 

1 felt thankful for the deadly unconsciousness that seized my 
sister. 1 laid her down gently; and, leaving her to the care of her 
maid, 1 went to see what had really happened. I could make out 
nothing clearly from the terrified domeetics, who were grouped to- 
gether and looked frightened out of their senses. 

” Where is Saunders?” 1 asked— he was poor Sir Victor’s valet. 

Wifh his assistance 1 discovered that Sir Victor had left the house 
about five in the afternoon. He had said nothing of whither he was 
going, leaving orders for dinner to be ready as usual at half-past 
seven. Nothing more had been seen or heard of him until one of 
the keepers, hearing a shot fired after twilight, went in the direct iori 
of the sound, thinking there were poachers about. To his untold 
horror he saw Sir Victor lying on the road path, his dead face up- 
turned to the evening sky. When the keeper examined him he 
found he had been shot through the heart; so that death must have 
been instantaneous. The man hastily procured assistance, and the 
body of the unfortunate baronet now lay in his room, the room he 
had quitted lately so full of life and strength, The groom had 
gone immediately in search of a doctor. 1 sent another servant to 
summon my father. He came at once, and with him Allan Charl- 
ton. The doctor arrived quickly; but he could do nothing. Poor 
Sir Victor was beyond all human aid. 

1 shall never forget the horrors of that night. My sister recovered 
consciousness only to fall into such a wild slate of grief and alarm 
that we could do nothing with her. In the presence of death all 
her wrongs seemed to be forgotten; the love of her youth had re- 
turned to her. Sir Victor, lying still and cold, was once more her 
chosen love; all the dreary married life was forgotten. 

Little Paul, aroused by the unusual noise and contusion, began to 
cry, as he had done before that evening, for ” papa ” to come and 
make friends with him. Alas! “papa” would never hear his 
child's voice on earth again! 

It was strange, too, now that he was dead, how all spoke kindly 
of him ; the servants, who had trembled at the sound of his voice, 
now remembered all his better qualities. My father, as he gazed 
on the calm white face, murmured: 

” Poor fellow— a wasted life and a sad end!’” 

In. the first bewilderment of the shock the question of who had 


30 


MY SISTER KATE. 


done the deed seemed to have been overlooked. Now it was eagerly 
debated, and men were sent out to search the woods in all direc- 
tions. In the pocket of the coat the dead man had worn were found 
the torn fragments of a letter in which the words “ Lena,” ” child,” 
” river,” ” levenge,” seemed to occur frequently. Nothing could 
be clearly made out from it. But the story was plain enough in its 
terrible significance— at least, so Allan Charlton seemed to think. 

” Spare her that, Mr. Hamber. Let us destroy this paper,” he 
said. 

Rightly or wrongly they burned it. No clew to the murderer 
could be found; no motive could be discovered for the deed. *1 rue, 
Sir Victor was not much liked; but he had no enemy who could 
Avish to take his life. It was a profound mystery, and the excite- 
ment in the neighborhood was intense. 

The dreary days dragged on slowly. My father remained with 
me at the Hall, for Kate required all our care. Allan was busy pros- 
ecuting inquiries. A large reward was offered, but without eflect. 
Only one thing was discovered, and that was the pistol with which 
the deed w’as done. It was found at the bottom of the ornamental 
water in the pleasure-grounds of the Hall. There was no name 
upon it, and no clew was obtained from it as to who had used it. 

'J he day of Sir Victor’s funeral was one of the most wretched 1 
can remember. The rain descended in torrents, the wind wailed 
and moaned through the trees. Some weeks afterward 1 heard that 
^ an old gypsy woman had forced her way through the crowd of 
mourners, and had stood looking down into the grave where poor 
Sir Victor slept. 

* * * * * * * 

There was no will. Kate would allow no hand but her own to 
touch her husband’s papers. She must have found some strange 
revelations there, for at times her grief was pitiful to see. Little 
Paul was now master of Erlesmere. It was arranged that, as soon 
as aflairs were settled, Kate and her child should leave the scene of 
their sorrow, and go abroad for a time. They did so. And, all 
together, we once more resumed our happy Venetian life. 

Tw^o years passed away, and still we lingered in our sunny home 
by the blue sea. We heard constantly from England; but nothing 
had been discovered as to the dreary tragedy of Erlesmere Hall. 
People were -beginning to forget it,- or to speak of it as a thing of 
the past. At first among ourselves it had been a constant theme. 
Kate did not avoid all mention of her grief; she often spoke of her 


MY SISTER KATE. 


37 


dead husband, and even in his praise. Little Sir Paul prattled away 
about “ papa;” but 1 do not think he retained much recollection of 
him. 

Allan Charlton wrote at last to say that he thought it was time 
we returned— he had managed my father’s aftairs during his ab- 
sence. So in the spring we went home again. Kate would not go 
to live at the Hall; she said it woirid always be haunted for her, 
and she could not bear it. She made her home once more at the 
Grange; and, but for the" presence of her golden-haired little son 
among us, the sad past might have been a dream. The Hall was 
let to strangers until Sir Paul attained his majority; but Lady 
Erlesmere could never be persuaded to enter it, again. 

Another year passed on, and one morning there came a letter ad- 
dressed in a strange handwriting to Lady Erlesmere. Kate opened 
it willi a smile, wondering who her new correspondent was. She 
neither wept nor fainted when she read it. She gave it to my 
father, and then went quietly to her own room. 

‘‘lam dying now, my lady,” this strange letter began, “ and 1 
must tell you the truth, or 1 shall not sleep quietly in my grave. 
Long years ago, when Victor Erlesmere was a poor man whose 
father made a scanty living on the turf, he knew and loved my 
daughter Lena. He met her first on a race-course. She was then 
about seventeen, and one- of the most beautiful girls in the world. 
She was my only child. 1 loved her as mothers do an only dan^- 
ter— no words can tell how dearly. I had been well taught in my 
early days, and in her turn she was well taught too. No lady ever 
read or wrote better. than my Lena, no lady was ever more beautiful 
and more gentle. Victor Erlesmere loved her. If he had remained 
a poor man he would have married her; but fortune and title came 
to him, and he left her. We heard he had married a beautiful lady 
in his new district. My daughter almost broke her heart. She 
vowed she would see him again before she die^. He had wealth 
and a lady for his bride, still he could not forget my child;. He 
sought her out again. The end of it all was that, with her child in 
her arms, she sought rest in the depths of the cold river, fearing 
less to face death than to encounter tlie reproaches of those who 
loved her. We gypsies are strong in love and strong in hate. 1 
kissed my daughter’s dead race, and 1 swore to avenge her death. 
When she was buried 1 had nothing else to live for. 1 walked 
many weary miles to reach his home. How the deed was done 1 
need not tell you. 1 avenged my child! 1 can not tell it there will 


38 


MY SISTER KATE. 


be mercy tor me. Hate and revenge are deadly sins, they tell me. 
Has his sin any name? Before you read this, my lady, 1 shall per- 
haps have met him face to face. 1 tell you this that no one else 
.maybe even suspected of my crime.” 

My father locked that letter in liis private bureau. Kate never 
asked for it nor named it. She did not join us that day, and we 
respected her sorrow. Never again did Sir Victor’s name pass her 
lips. When the little baronet, as we used to call him, reached his 
tenth year, my father insisted that he phould be sent to a public 
school. He declared we were spoiling the child and making ” an 
old woman ” of him. 

When Kat^ was once more alone, Allan Charlton, faithful and 
true to the one love of his life, came again. This time he did not 
plead in vain. It was not the radiant girl whose smile had been a 
gleam of sunshine who blessed him with her love;- it was a beauti- 
ful thoughtful woman who had seen much suftering, whose heart 
had ached with a bitterness worse than death. 

Happier days came tor her; she is mistress now of Charlton 
Tow^ers, children playing round her knee. ,Sir Paul is the most 
devoted of sons and Allan the best of husbands. 1 still live with 
my father at the Grange; and there 1 intend to remain until 1 meet 
with some one as faithful, as loyal, and as noble as the husband of * 
My Bister Kate. 


THE END. 


A, RAINY JUNE. 

By '^OUIDA.'^ 


From the Prince di San Zenoiie Claridge's, London, to the 
Duchessa dell’ Aquila I'ulva, Monterone, near Milano, Italy. 

“ Caeissima Teresa, — I have received your letter, which is de. 
lightful to me, because it is yours, and terrible to me because it scolds 
me, abuses me, flies at me, makes me feel like a school- boy who has 
had a saponata. Yes; it is quite true. I can not help it She has 
betwitched me. She is a lily made into a woman. I feared you 
would be angry, especially angry because she is a foreigner, but the 
hour of fate has struck. You will not wonder when you see her. 
She is as blonde as the dawn and as pure as a pearl. It seems to me 
that 1 have never loved any woman at all in my life before. To love 
her is like plunging one’s hand in cool spring water on a midsum- 
mer noon. She is such repose; such innocence; such holiness! In 
the midst of this crowded, over-colored, vulgar London life, for it 
is very vulgar at its highest, she seems like some angel of purity. 
I saw her first, standing with a knot of roses in her hand under a 
ccdar-tree, at one of their afternoon clubs on the river. She was 
drinking a cup of tea; thej are always drinking tea. And she is so 
wliile. 1 never saw anything so white except the snow on the 
Leonessa. She is not in the least like the fast young ladies of Eng- 
land, of whom one sees so much in the winter at Rome. 1 do not 
like their fast young women. If you want a woman who is fast, a 
Parisieune is best, or even an American. Englishwomen overdo it. 
She is just like a primrose; like a piece of porcelain; like a soft, 
pale star shining in the morning. 1 write all kinds of poetry when 
1 think of her. And then, there is something Sainte Mitouche 
about her which is delicious, because it is so real. The only thing 
which was wanting in her was that she ought to have been shut up 
in a convent, and 1 ought to have had to imperil my soul for all 
eternity by getting her over a stone wall with a silken ladder. But 
it is a prosaic age, and ^is is a very prosaic country, London 

(3W — 


40 


A KAINY JUKE. 


amuses me, but it is such a crowd, and it is frightfully ugly. I can 
not think how people who are so enormously rich as the English 
can put up with such ugliness. The houses are all too small, even 
the big ones. 1 have not seen a good ball-room; they say there are 
good ones in the country houses. The clubs are admirable, but life 
in general seems to me hurried, costl 3 ^ ungraceful, very noisy, and 
almost entirely consecrated to eating. It is made up of a scramble 
and a mass of food. People engage themselves for dinners a month 
in advance. Everybody’s engagement book is so full that it is the 
burden of their da 3 ’’S. They accept everything, and at the eleventh 
hour pick out what they prefer, and, to use their own language, 
‘throw over the rest.’ 1 do not think it is pretty behavior, but 
nobody seems to object to it. 1 wonder that the women do not do 
so, but they seem to be afraid of losing their men altogether if they 
exact good manners from them. People here are not at all well- 
mannered to my taste; neither the men nor the women. They are 
brusque and negligent, and have few 2'>€tiis soins. You should have 
come over for my marriage, to show them all what an exquisite 
creature a Venetian patrician beauty can be. Wny should 3 "Ou marr 3 - 
that Piedmontese? Only two things seem to be of any importance 
in England — they are eating and politics. They eat all day long, 
and they are alwa.ys talking of Mr. Gladstone. Mr. Gladstone, 
on'embete. Half of them say he is the salvation of England ; the 
other half that he is the destruction of England. Myself, 1 don’t 
care the least which he is; only 1 know the 3 - can not keep him out 
of their conversation, one w-ay or another, for five minutes; which, 
loan unprejudiced foieigner, is a seccatura.. But to-morrow 1 go 
down into the country with my primrose — all alone — to-morrow she 
will be mine altogether and unalterably, and 1 shall hear nothing 
about Mr. Gladstone or anything that is tiresome. Of course, you 
are wondering that 1 should marry. 1 wonder myself, but then if 1 did 
not marry 1 should be compelled to say an eternal addio to the Lenten 
Lily. She has such a spiked wall around her of male relatires and 
famil 3 ’^ greatness; it is not the convent wall; there is no ladder that 
will go over it; one must enter by the big front door, or not at all. 
Felicitate me and yet compassionate me. 1 am going to Paradise, 
no doubt; but 1 have the uncomfortable doubt as to M-hether it will 
suit me, which all people who are going to Paradise always do feel. 
VVhy? Becanse we are mortal? Or because we are sinners? A 
retet'derci, cara mia Teresina! Write to me at my future Eden; 
it is called Coombe Bysset, Wiltshire. We are to be there a month. 
It is the choice of my primrose. ” 


A RAIJS'Y JUNE. 


41 


From the Lady Alary Bruton, Belgrave Square, London, to Airs. 
d’Arcy, British Embassy, Berlin. 

“The season has been horribly dull; quantities of mamages — 
people always will marry, however dull it is. The one most talked 
about is that ot the Cowes’ second daughter. Lady Gladys, with 
the Prince of San Zenone. She is one of the beauties, but a very 
simple girl, quite old-fashioned, indeed. She has refused Lord 
Hampshire, and a good many other people, and then fallen in love 
in a week with this Roman, who is certainly as handsome as a pict- 
ure. But Cowes didn’t like it at all; hSgave in because he couldn’t 
help it, but he was dreadfully vexed that the Hampshire affair did 
not come oSt instead. Hampshire is such a good creature, and his 
estates are close to theirs; it is certainly very provoking for them 
that this Italian must take it in his head to spend a season in Lon- 
don, and lead the cotillon so beautifully, that all the young women 
talked ot nothing else but his charms.” 


From the Lady Alona St. Clair, Grosvenor Square, London, to 
Alias Brone, schooner-yacht “ Persephone,” oft Cherbourg. 

“ The w'edding was very pretty yesterday. We ha,d frocks of 
tussore silk, with bouquets of orchids and Penelope Boothby caps. 
She looked very pretty, but as white as her gown— such a goose!— 
it was ivory satin, with point de Venise. He is 'quite too handsome, 
and 1 can not think what he could see in her. He gave us each a 
locket with her portrait inside. 1 wished it had been his. 1 dare 
say Hampshire would have been better for her, and worn longer 
than Romeo. Lord Cowes is furious about Romeo; he detests the 
religion and all that, and he could hardly make himself look pleas- 
ant, even at church. Of course, there were two ceremonies. The 
cardinal had consented at last, though 1 believe he had made all 
kinds of fuss first. Lady Gladys, you know, is very, very High 
Church, so 1 suppose that reconciled a little the irreconcilable car- 
dinal. She thinks of nothing but the church and her missions and 
her poor people. 1 am afraid the Roman prince will get dreadfully 
bored. And they are going down into Wiltshire, of all places, to 
be shut up for a month! It is very stupid of her, and such a wet 
season as it is! They are going to Coombe Bysset, her aunt. Lady 
Caroline’s place. 1 fancy Romeo will soon be bored; and I don’t 
think Coombe Bysset at all judicious. 1 would have gone to Hom- 
burg, or Deauville, or Japan.” 


42 


A RAINY JUNE. 


From the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, "Wilts., to the 
Countess ot Cowes, London. 

“ Deatiest Mother, —1 am, too, too, too happy. It is no use 
writing about it. I would if 1 could, but 1 can’t. He is delighted 
with Coombe, and says the verdure is something wonderful. We 
got here just as the sun was setting. There were all Aunt Carrie’s 
school children out to meet us with baskets of roses. Piero said 
they looked like bigger roses themselves. He is enchanted with 
England. It is very fine to-day. 1 do so hope it won’t rain, but 
the glass is falling. Forgive a hurried word like this. 1 am going 
to take Piero on the lake. 1 know you haven’t liked it, dear; but 1 
am sure when you see how happy 1 am you will say there was never 
any one like him on earth.” 


From the Countess of Cowes, Cowes House, London, to the 
Duchess ot Dunne, Wavernake, Worcestershire. 

“ No, 1 confess 1 do not approve of the maniage; it will take her 
away from us, and 1 am afraid she won’t be happy. She has always 
had such very exalted ideas. She is not in the least the girl of the 
period. Of course, she was taken by his picturesque face and his 
wonderful manners. His manners are really wonderful in these 
days when our men have none at all; and he has charmingly caress- 
ing and deferential w^ays which win even me. 1 can not wonder at 
her, poor child; but 1 am afraid; candidly, I am afraid. He makes 
all our men look like plowboys, and it was all done in such tre- 
mendous haste that we had no time to reason or reflect; and 1 don’t 
think they have said two serious words to each other. It only it 
had been dear, good Hampshire, whom we have known all our 
lives and whose lands march with ours! But that was too good to 
be, 1 suppose; and there ws no positive objection we could raise to 
San Zenone; we could not refuse his proposals because he is too 
good-looking, isn’t an Englishman, and has a mother who is reputed 
onaitresse femme. Gladys writes from Coombe as from the seventh 
jUeaven. They have been married three days! But 1 fear she will 
have trouble before her. 1 fear he is weak and unstable, and will 
not back her up against his own people when she goes amongst 
them, and though, now^adays, a man and woman, once w^edded, see 
so little of each other,' Gladys is not quite of the time in her notions; 
she will take it all very seriously, poor child, and expect the idyl to 
be prolonged over the honeymoon. And she is very English in her 


A RAINY JUNE. 


43 


tastes and has been so very little out of England. However, every 
girl in London is envying her; it is only her father and 1 who see 
these little black specks on the fruit she has plucked. They are 
gone to Coorabe. by her wish. 1 think it would have been wiser not 
to subject an Italian to such an ordeal as a wet English June in an 
utterly lonely country house. You know even Englishmen, who 
can always find such refuge and comfort in prize pigs and siraw- 
3 'ards and unusually big mangolds, get bored if they are in the 
country when there is nothing to shoot; and Englishmen are used 
to being drenched to the skin every time they move out. He is not. 
Lord Cowes says love is like a cotton frock — very pretty as long as 
the sun shines, but it won't stand a wetting. 1 wish you had been 
here; Gladys looked quite lovely. Cardinal Manning most kindly 
relented, and the whole thing went oft very well. Of the San 
Zenone family, there was only present Don Fabrizio, the younger 
son, a very good looking young man. The terrible duchess didn’t 
come on account, i think, of her sulks. She hates the marriage on 
her side as much as we do on ours, 1 am sure. Really, one must 
believe a little in fate. 1 do think that Gladys would soon have re- 
signed herself to acceptina: Hampshire, out of sheer fatigue at say- 
ing ‘ No ’ — and, besides, she knew that we are so fond of him, 
and to live in the same country was such an attraction; but this 
irresistible young Roman must take it into his head that he wished 
to see a London season, and when once they had met (it was our 
afternoon at Ranelagh) there was no more chance for our poor, 
dear, good, stupid neighbor. Well, we must hope for the best!” 


From the Prince Piero di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to the 
Duchessa dell’ Aquila Fulva, Palazzo Fulva; Milano. 

“ Carissima Mia,— There are quantities of nightingales in little 
green nests at this season. 1. am a nightingale in a green nest. 1 
never saw anything so green as this paradise of mine. It is certainly 
paradise. If 1 feel a little depayse in it, it is only because 1 have 
been such a sinner. No doubt it is only that. Paradise is chilly; 
this is its only fault. It is the sixth of June, and we have fires. 
Fires in the dressing-rooms, fires in the drawing-rooms, fires at both 
ends of the library, fires on both sides of the hall, fires everywhere; 
and with all of them 1 shiver. 1 can not help shivering, and 1 feel 
convinced that in my rapture 1 have mistaken the month— it must 
be December. It is all enchautingly pretty here; the whole place 


44 


A EAIlsY JOTK. 


looks in such perfect order that it mi^ht have been taken out of a 
box last night. I have a little the sensation of being always at 
church. That, no doubt, is the eftect of the first step toward virtue 
I have ever made. Pray do not think that I am not perfectly 
happy. 1 should be more sensible of my happiness, no doubt, if 1 
had not quite such a feeling, due to the dampness of the air, of 
having been put into an aquarium, like a jelly fish. But Gladys is 
adorable in every way, and if she were not quite so easily scared 
would be perfection. It was that little air of hers. likQ that of some 
irresistible Alpine flower, which bewitched me. But when one has 
got the Apine flower, one can not live forever on \i—ma basta! 1 
was curious to know what a Northern woman was like; 1 know 
now. She is exquisite,- but a little monotonous and a little prudish. 
Certainly she will never compromise me; but then, perhaps, she 
will never let me compronr.ise myself, and that will be terrible! 1 am 
ungrateful; all meu are ungrateful; but, then, is it not a little the 
woman’s fault! They do keep so very close to one. Now, an 
angel, you know, becomes tiresome if one never gets out of the 
shadow of its wings —here, at Coombe Bysset, the angel fills tlie 
horizon.” 

From the Duchessa dell’ Aquila Fulva, Palazzo Fulva, Milano, to 

the Prince Piero di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, Wilts., England. 

“ Cako mio PiERiNO,-^Are you sure you have an angel? People 
have a trick of always calling very commonplace w’omen angels. 

* She is an angel ’ is a polite way Of saying ‘she is a bore.’ 1 am not 
sure either that 1 should care to live with a veritable angel. One 
would see too much of the wu'ngs, as you say; and even a guardian 
angel must be the iorzo incommodo sometimes. Why w^ould you 
marry an English girl? 1 dare say she is so good-tempered that she 
never contradicts you, and you grow peevish out of sheer weariness 
at having everything your own w’aj% If you had married Nicoletta, 
as 1 wanted you to do, she would have flown at you like a little 
tigress a dozen times a week, and kept you on tlm qui mte to please 
her. We know what our owm men w^ant. 1 have half a mind • 
to write to your wife and tell her that no Italian is comfortable uu^ 
less ho has his ears boxed twice a day. If your wife would be a 
little disagreeable, probably you would adore her. But it is a great 
mistake, Pierino mio, to confuse marriage and love. In reality they 
have no more to do with one anotlier than a horse chestnut and a 
chestnut hoise; than the zuccone ihdA means a Vegetable and the 


A RAINY JUNE. 


45 


zuccone that means a simpleton. I should imagine that your wet 
English bird’s nest will force you to realize this truth with lament- 
able rapidity. ’ ’ 


From the Princess di San Zenone, Gooinbe Byseet, Wilts., to Lady 
Gwendoline Dormer, British Embassy, Vienna. 

“ Dearest Gwen,— 1 did promise, 1 know, to write to you at 
once, and tell you everything; and a whole week is gone and 1 
couldn’t do it, 1 really couldn’t; and even now 1 don’t know where 
to begin. 1 suppose 1 am dreadfully vieux jeu. I suppose you will 
only laugh at me and say ‘ spoons.’ How glad I am Piero can not 
say a word of English, and so 1 never hear that dreadful jargon 
which 1 do think so ugly and so vulgar, though you are all so fond 
of it. I ought not to have come to Coombe Bysset; ai least, they 
all said it was silly. Nessie Fitzgerald was back in London before 
the week was out, and doing a play. To be sure she was married 
in October and she didn’t care a bit about him, and 1 suppose that 
made all Ihe difference To me it seems so much more natural to 
shut one’s self up, and Piero thought so too; but 1 am half afraid 
he finds it a little dull now. You see we know very little of one 
another. lie came for a month of the London season, and he met 
me at Ranelagh, and he danced the cotilion with me at a good many 
houses, and we cared for one another in a week, and were married 
jn a month, as you know. Papa hated itj because it wasn’t Bur- 
lington or Lord Hampshire. But he couldn't really object, because 
the San Zenone are such a great Homan family, and all the world 
knows them; and they are Spanish dukes as well as Italian princes. 
And Piero is such a grand gentleman, and made quite superb set- 
tlements; much more, papa said, than he could have expected, so 
poor as we are. But what 1 nu ant was, meeting like that in the 
rush of the season, at balls and dinners and garden-parties and 
luncheons at Hurlingham; and being married to one another just 
before Ascot, we really knew nothing at all of each other’s tastes or 
habits or character. And when, on the first morning at Coombe, 
we realized that we were together for life, I think we both felt very 
odd. We adored one another, but we didn’t know what to talk 
about; we never Jiad talked to each other; we’d never had time. 
And I am afraid there is something of this feeling with him, I am 
afraid he is dreadfully bored; and I told him so, and he answered: 

* Angelina mia, your admirable countrymen are not bored in the 
country because Ihoj are always eating. They eat a big breakfast, 


40 


A RAIKY JUKK. 


they eat a big luncheon, they eat a big dinner, they are always eat- 
ing. Myself, 1 have not that resource. Give me a little coffee and 
a little wine, and let me eat only once a day. You never told me 1 
was expected to absorb food like the crocodiles.’ What would he 
say it he saw a hunting-breakfast in the shires. 1 suppose life is 
very material in England. 1 think it is why there is so much typhus 
fever. Do you know, he wasn’t going to dress for dinner because 
we were alone. As if that was any reason! I told him it would 
look so odd to the servants it he wouldn’t dress, so he has done so 
since. But he said it was a seccaiura (this means, 1 believe, a bore), 
and he told me we English sacrificed our whole lives to fuss, form 
and the outside of things. Ihere is a great deal of truth in this. 
What numbers of people one knows who are ever so poor, and who 
yet, for the sake of the look of the thing, get into debt over their 
ears? And then quantities of them go to church for the form of the 
thin^, when they don’t believe one atom; &nd they will tell you at 
luncheon that they don’t. I fancy Italians are much more honest 
than we are in this sort of way. Piero says if they are poor, they 
don’t mind saying so, and if they have no religion they don’t pre- 
tend to have any. He declares we English spoil all our lives be- 
cause we fancy it is our duty to prelend to be something we are not. 
Now, isn't that really very true? I am sure you would deli^rht in 
all he says. He is so original, so unconventional; our people think 
him ignorant, because he doesn't read and doesn’t care a straw 
about politics. But 1 assure you he is as clever as anything can be; 
and he doesn’t get his ideas out of newspapers, nor repeat like a par- 
rot w'hat his chief of party tells him. 1 do wish you could have 
come over and could have seen him. It was so unkind of you to 
be ill just at the very time of my marriage. You know that it is 
only to you that 1 ever say quite what 1 feel about things. The 
girls are too young, and mamma doesn’t understand. She never 
could see why 1 would not marry poor Hampshire. She always 
said that 1 should care for him in time. 1 don’t think mamma can 
ever have been in love with anybody. 1 wonder what she manied 
for— don’t you?” 


From the Prince Piero di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to the 
Count Zazzari, Italian Legation, London. 

“ Cara Gigi,— Pray send me all the French novels you can find 
and a case of Turkish cigarettes. 1 am in paradise; but paradise is 
a little dull and exceedingly damp, at least in England. Does it 


A RAINY JUNE, 


47 


always rain in this country? It has rained here without stopping 
for seventeen days and a half. 1 produce upon myself the impres- 
sion ot being one ot those larks who sit behind wires on a little 
square of wet grass. 1 should like to run up to London; 1 see you 
have Jeanne Granier and the others; but 1 suppose it would be 
against all the unwritten canons of a honeymoon. What a strange 
institution, a honeymoon! Who first invented it?” 


From the Prince ot San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, Wilts., to the 
Duchessa dell’ Aquila Fulva, Palazza Fulva, Milano. 

‘‘ Cara Teresina, — 1 ought to have written to you long since, 
but you know 1 am not fond of writing. 1 really also have noth- 
ing to say. Happy the people who has no history. I am like that 
people. 1 was made happy two weeks ago; 1 have been happy ever 
since. It is slightly monotonous. How can you vary happiness 
except by quarreling a little? And then it would not be happiness 
any longer. It seems to me that b^PPhiess is like an omelette, best 
impromptu. Do not think that 1 am imgrateful, however, either to 
fate or to the charming innocent who has become my companion. 
W e have not two ideas in common ; she is lovely to looE at, to caress, 
to adore; but what to say to her 1 confess 1 have no notion. Love , 
ought never to have to find dinner-table conversation. He oucht to 
climb up by a ladder and get over a balcony, and, when his ecstasies 
are ended, he ought to go the same way., 1 fancy she is cleverer than 
1 am, but as that would be a discovery latal to our comfort, 1 en- 
deavor not to maKe it. She is extraordinarily sweet-tempered; in- 
deed, so much so that it makes me angry; it gives one no excuse 
lor being impatient. She is divine,, exquisite, nymph-like; but, alas, 
she is a prude! Never was any creature on earth so exquisitely 
sensitive, so easily shocked. To live with her is to w'alk on egg- 
shells. Of course, it is very nice in a wife; very ‘ proper,’ as the 
English say; but it is not amusing. It amused me at first, but now 
it seems to me a detect. She has bi ought me down to this terribly 
damp and very green place, where it rains every day and night. 
There is a library without novels; there is a cellar without al>sinthe; 
there is a cuisine without tomatoes or garlic, or any oil at all; there 
is an admirably ordered establishment, so quiet that 1 fancy 1 am in’ 
a penitentiary. There are some adorably fine horses, and there are 
acres of glass houses used to grow fruits that we throw in Italy to 
the pigs. By the way, there are also several of our field flowers in 


48 


A RAli^y JUNE. 


the conservatories. We eat pretty nearly all day; there is nothing 
else to do. Outside, the scenery is oppressively green, the green of 
spinach; there is no variety, there are no ilexes and there are no 
olives. 1 understand now why the English painters give such star- 
ing colors; unless the colors scream you don’t see them in this 
aqueous, dim atmosphere. That is why a benign Providence has 
made the landscape aux epinarda 1 tliiuK the air here, inside and 
out, must weigh heavily; it lies on one’s lungs like a sponge. 1 
once went down in a diving-bell when 1 was a boy; 1 have the sen- 
sation in this country of being always down in a diving-bell. The 
scamp Toniello, whom you may remember as having played Lepo- 
rello to my Don Giovanno ever since we were lads, amuses himself 
with making love to all the pretty maidens in the village; but then 
1 must not do that--now. Tliey have very big teeth, and very long 
upper lips. Their skins, however, aie admirable. For a horse’s 
skin, and a woman’s, there is no land comparable to England. It 
is the country of grooming.” 


From the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe Bysser, to the Lady 
Gwendolen Chichester, British Embassy, St, Petersburg. 

“ He laughed at me because 1 went to church yesterday, and 
really 1 only went because 1 thought it right. We have been here 
a iortnight, and 1 have never been to church at all till yesterday, 
and you know how^ very serious dear Aunt Carrie is. To-day^, as it 
was the second Sunday 1 have been here, 1 thought 1 ought to go 
just once, and 1 did go; but it was dreadfully pompous and lonely 
in the big red pew: and the villagers stared so, and all the little 
girls of the village giggled and looked at me from under their sun- 
bonnets. Dear Mr. Coate preached a sermon on marriage. It was 
very kind of him; but, oh, how 1 wuBh he hadn’t! When 1 got 
back, Piero was playing billiards with his servant. I wondered 
what Mr. Coate would have thought of him. To be sure, English 
clergymen have to gel used to fast Sundays now when the country 
houses are full. It is such a dear little yew walk to the church from 
the house here, not twenty yards long, and all lined with fuchsia. 
Do you remember it? Even Piero admits that it is very pretty, only 
he says it is a vignette piettiness, w'hich, I suppose, is true. ‘ You 
can see no horizon, only a green w^all,’ he keeps complaining, and his 
beautiful, lustrous eyes look as if they were made to gaze through 


A KAINY JUNE. 


49 


endless fields of light. When I asked him yekerday what he really 
thought of England, whai do you suppose he said? He said, ‘ Mia 
cara, 1 think it would be a most' delightful country if it had one-fifth 
ot its population, one-half of its houses, a tithe of its dinners, a 
quarter of its machinery, none of its factories and a wholly different 
atmosphere!’ 1 suppose this- means that he dislikes it? 1 think 
him handsomer than ever. 1 sent you his photograph, but that can 
give you no idea ot hfm. He is like one of his own marble statues. 
We came to Coombe Bysset directly after the ceremony and we are 
here still. I could stay on forever. It is so lovely in these Wilt- 
shire woods in mid-dune. But I am afraid— just the very least bit 
afraid — that Piero may get bored with me — me— me— nothing but 
me. He is dn angel. We ride in the morning, we sinrr and play 
in the evening. We adore each other all the twenty-four hours 
through. I wonder how ever I could have lived without him. I 
am longing to see all he tells me about his great marble palarses and 
his immense dream-like villas and his gardens with their multitude 
of statues and the wonderful light that is over it all. He protests 
it is always twilight with us in England. It seems so absurd, when 
nowadays everybody knows everything about everywhere, that 1 
should never have been to Italy. But we were such country mice 
do\^ n at dear, old, -dull, green, muddy Ditchworth. Lanciano, the 
biggest of all their big places, must be like a poem. It is a great 
house, all of different colored marbles, set amidst ilex groves on the 
mountain side, with cascades like Terui and gardens that were 
planned by Giulio Romano, and temples that were there in the days 
ot Horace. 1 long to see it all, and yet 1 hope he will not want to 
leave Coombe yet. There is no place like the place where one is 
first happy. And somehow, 1 fancy 1 look hetter in these homely, 
low rooms ot Aunt Carrie’s, with their Chippendale furniture and 
their smell of dry rose leaves, than 1 shall do in those enormous 
palaces, which want a Semiramis or a Cleopatra. They were kind 
enough to make a fuss about me in London, but I never thought 
much of myself, and 1 am afraid 1 must seem rather dull to Piero, 
who is so brilliant himself, and has all kinds of talents. You know', 
1 never was clever, and reall}'— really— 1 haven’t an idea what to 
talk to him about when we don’t talk about ourselves. And then 
the weather provokes him. We have hardly had one tine day since 
we came; and no doubt it seems very gray and chilly to an Italian. 

‘ it can not be June!’ he says, a dozen times a week. And when 
the whole day is rainy, as it is very often, for our Junes are such 
wet ones nowadays, 1 can see he gets impatient. He doesn’t care 


50 


A RAINY JUNE. 


for reading; he is fond of billiards, but 1 don’t play a good enough 
game to be any amusement to him. And though he sings divine- 
ly, as I told you, he sings as the birds do— just when the mood is on 
him. He does not care about music as a science in the least. He 
laughed when 1 said so; he declared it was no more a science than 
love is. Perhaps love ought to be a science too, in a way, or else it 
won’t last. There has been a scandal in the village caused by his 
servant Tonino. An infuriated father came up to the house this 
morning about it. He is named John Best; he has one of Aunt Car- 
rie’s biggest farms. He was in such a dreadful rage and 1 had to 
talk to him, because, of course, Piero couldn’t understand him. 
Only when 1 translated what he said, Piero laughed till he cried, 
and offered him a cigarette, and called him ‘ figlio mio,’ which only 
made Mr. John Best purple with fury, and he went away in a 
greater rage than he had been in when became, swearing ‘ he would 
do tor the Papist.’ 1 have sent for the steward. 1 am afraid Aunt 
Carrie will be terribly annoyed. It has always been such a model 
village. Not a public house near for six miles, and all the girls 
such demure, quiet little maidens. The terrible Roman valet, with 
his starry eyes and his mandoline and his audacities, has been like 
Mephistopheles in the opera to this secluded and innocent little 
hamlet. 1 beg Piero to send him away, but ho looks unutterably 
reproachful, and declares he really can not live without Toniello, 
and what can 1 say?” 


From the Lady Gwendolen Chichester, St. Petersburg, to the 
Princess di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset. 

‘‘ You are quite in the wrong, my poor pet. If you were only a 
little older and even so much wiser, you would have telegraphed to 
the libraries yourself for the French books; you would have laughed 
at them when he laughed; and instead of taking ]\Ir. John Best as 
a tragedy, you would have made him into a little burlesque, which 
would have amused your husband for five minutes as much as Gyp 
or Jean Richepin. 1 begin to think 1 should have married your 
Roman prince,' and you should have married niy good, dull George, 
whom a perverse destiny has shoved into diplomacy. Your Roman 
scandalizes you, and my George bores me. Such is marriage, my 
dear, all the world over. What is the old story? That Jove broke 
all the walnuts, and each half is always uselessly seeking its fel- 
low.” 


A TIATXY JUN’E. 


51 


From the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, Wilts., to the 
Lady Gwendolen Chichester, British Embassy, St. Petersburg. 

“ But surely it he loved me he would be as perfectly happy with 
me alone as 1 am with him alone; 1 want no other companion — no 
other interest — no other thought.” 


From the Lady Gwendoleir Chichester, British Embassy, St. Peters- 
burg, to the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, Wilts. 

“ Of course you do not, because you are a woman. San Zenone 
is your god, your idol, your idealj your universe. But you are only 
one out of the many women who have pleased him, and attached to 
the pleasure you afford him, is the very uncomfortable conviction 
that he will never be able to get away from you. My dear child, 1 
have no patience with any woman when she says, " he does not 
love me.* If he do not, it is probably the woman’s fault. 'Proba- 
bly she has worried him. Love dies directly it is worried, quite 
naturally. Poor Gladys! You were always such a good child; you 
were always devoted to your old women, and your queer little or- 
phans, and your pet cripples, and your East End missions. It cer- 
tainly is hard that you should have fallen into the hands of a soul- 
less Italian, who reads naughty novels all day long and sighs for 
the fleshpots of Egypt! But, my child, in reason’s name, what did 
3^011 expect? Did you think that all in a moment he would sigh to 
liear Canon Farrar or Dean Liddell; take his guitar to a concert in 
Seven Dials, and teach Italian to Bethnal Green babies? Be rea- 
sonable, and let yonr poor caged bird fly out of Coombe Bysset; 
which will certainly be your worst enemy it you shut him up in it 
much longer.” 


From the Prince di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to the Duchessa 
dell’ Aquila Fulva. Palazzo Fulva, Milano. 

“lam, still in my box of wet moss. 1 have been in it two weeks, 
four days and eleven hours, by the calendar and the clocks. 1 have 
read all my novels. I have spelled through my ‘Figaro,’ from the 
title to the pi inters’ address, every morning. 1 have smoked twenty 
cigarettes every twenty minutes, and 1 have yawned as many times. 
This is paradise, 1 know it: 1 tell myself so; but still 1 can not help 
it_l yawn. There is a pale, watery sun, which shines fitfully. 
There is a quaiutity of soaked hay whicn they are going to dry by 


52 


A HAIKY JUKE, 




machinery. There is a great variety of muddy lanes in which to 
ride. There is a post-oflfice seven miles off, and a telegraph station 
tifteen miles further off. The ensemble is not animated.’ When 
you go out you see very sleek cattle, very white sheep, very fat 
children: You may meet at intervals laboring people very round- 
shouldered and very sulky. You also meet, if you are in luck’s 
way, with a traction engine; and wherever you look you perceive a 
church steeple. It is all very harmless, except the traction engine, 
but it is not animated or enlivening. You will not wonder that 1 
soon came to the end of my French novels. The French novels 
have enabled me to discover that my anger is very easily ruffled. In 
fact, she is that touchy thing — a saint. 1 had no idea that she was a 
saint when 1 saw her drinking her cup of tea in that garden on the 
TJiames. True, she had her lovely little serene, holy, noli me 
tangere air, but I thought that would pass; it does not pass. And 
when 1 wanted her to laugh with me at ‘ Autour du Marriage,’ she 
blushed up to the eyes and was offended. What am 1 to do? lam 
not worse than other men, but I like to amuse mysell. I can not 
go through life singing a miserere. 1 am afraid we shall quarrel. 
Y"ou think that very wholesome. But there are quarrels and quar- 
rels. Some clear the air like thunder-storms. Ours are little irri- 
tating differences which end in her bursting into tears, and in my- 
self looking ridiculous and feeling a brute. She has cried quite a 
number of times in the last fortnight. 1 dare say it she went into 
a rage, as you justly say Nicoletta would do, and you might have 
added you have done, it would rouse me, and 1 should be ready to 
strike her, and should end in covering her with kisses. But she 
only turns her eyes on me like a dying fawn, bursts into tears and 
goes out of the room. Then she comes in again — to dinner, per- 
haps, or to that odd ceremony, five o’clock tea — with her little sad, 
stiff, reproachful air as of a martyr; answers meekly, and makes me 
again feel a brute. The English sulk a long time, 1 think. We 
are at daggers drawn one moment, but then we kiss and forget 
the next. We are more passionate, but we are more amiable. 

1 want to get away to go to Paris, Homburg, Trouville, anywhere; 
Init 1 dare not propose it. 1 only drop adroit hints. If 1 should die 
ot ennui, and be buried under the wet moss forever, weep for me.”* 


From the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to Lady Gwen- 
dolen Chichester, St. Petersburg. 

. ” Coombe is quite too lovely now. It does rain sometimes, cer. 
tainly, but between the showers it is so delicious. 1 asked Piero to 


A RAINY JUNN. 


53 


come out and hear the nightingale; there really is one in the home 
wood, and he laughed at the idea. He said ‘ we have hundreds ot 
nightingales shouting all day and all night at Lanciano. We don’t 
think about them, we eat them in pasta; they are very good.’ 
Fancy eating a nightingale! You might as well eat Romeo and 
Juliet. Piero has got a number ot French books from London, 
and he lies about on the couches and reads them. He wants me to 
listen to naughty bits ot fnn out of them; but I will not, and then 
he calls me a prude, and gets angry. 1 don’t see why he shouldn’t 
laugh as much as he likes himself, without telling me why he 
laughed. 1 dislike that sort of thing. 1 am horribly afraid 1 shall 
care for nothing but him all my life, while he — he yawned yester- 
day. Papa said to me, bet ore we were married, ‘ My dear little girl, 
San Zenone put on such a lot of steam at first, he’ll De obliged to 
ease his pace after a bit. Don’t be vexed if yoii find the thing cool- 
ing.’ Now, papa speaks so oddly; always that sort ot floundering, 
bald metaphor, you remember it; but 1 Rnew what he meant. No- 
body could go on being such a lover as Piero was. Ah, dear, it is 
in the past already! No, 1 don’t quite mean that. He is Romeo 
still very often, and he sings me the divinest love songs, lying at 
my feet on cushions in the moonlight. But it is not quite the same 
thing as it was at first. He found fault with one of my gowns this 
morning; and said 1 was fagotee. ‘ Fagotee!’ 1 am terribly fright- 
ened lest Coombe has bored him too much. I would come here. 1 
w^anted to be utterly out of the world and so did hC; and I’m sure 
there isn’t a lover’s neSt anywhere comparable to Coombe in mid- 
summer. You remember the rose garden and the lime avenues and 
the chapel ruins by the little lake? When Aunt Carrie offered it to 
us for this June I was so delighted, but now I am half afraid the 
choice of it was a mistake, and that he does not know what to do 
with himself. He is depayse. 1 cried a little yesterday. ’ it was 
too silly, but 1 couldn’t help it. He laughed at me, but he got a 
little angry. ‘ Enjin que veux tuV he said, impatiently; suis a 
toi, Uen a toi beaucoup trap a toi!" He seemed to me to regret be- 
ing mine. 1 told him so. He was more angry. It was, 1 suppose, 
what you would call a scene. In five minutes he was penitent, and 
caressed me as only he can do; and the sun came out and we M’ent 
In the woods and heard the nightingale, but the remembrance of it 
alarms me. If he can say as much as this in a month, what will he 
not say in a year. 1 do not think I am silly. 1 had two London 
seasons, and all those country houses show one the world. 1 know 
people when they are married are always glad to get aw'ay from one 


54 


A RAINY JUNE. 


another— they are always flirting with other people. But 1 should 
be miserable it 1 thought it would ever be like that with Piero and 
me. 1 worship his very shadow, and he does— or he did— worship 
mine. Why should that change? Why should it not go on for' 
ever, as it does in poems? If it can’t, why doesn’t one die?” 


From the Lady Gwendolen Chichester, St. Petersburg, to the 
Princess di San Zenone, Coombe, Bysset. 

” What a goose you are, you dearest Gladys! You were ahvays 
like that, lo all you have said 1 can only reply When girls 

are romantic, and you always were, though it was quite gone out 
asres before our time, they always expect husbands to remain lovers.. 
Now, my pet, you might just as well expect hay to remain grass. 
Papa was quite right. When there is a lot of steam on it must go 
off by degrees. 1 am afraid, too, you have begun with the passion, 
and the rapture, and the mutual adoration, and all the rest of it, 
which is quite, quite gone out. People don’t feel in that sort of 
way nowadays. Nobody cares much; a sort of good-humored lik- 
ing is. the utmost one sees. But you w^ere always such a goose! 
And now you must marry an Italian, and expect it to be balconies 
and guilars and moonlight for ever and ever, 1 think it quite nat- 
ural he should want to get to Paris. You should never have taken 
him to Coombe. 1 do remember the rose gardens and the lime 
avenues and the ruins; and.l remember being sent down there when 
1 had too strong a flirtation with Philip Rous, who was in F. O., 
and had nothing a year— you were a baby then— and 1 remember 
that 1 was bored to the very brink of suicide; that 1 have detested 
the smell of a lime-tree ever since. 1 can sympathize with the 
prince, if he longs to get away. There can’t be anything for him 
to do all day long, except smoke. The photo of him is wonderfully 
handsome; but can you live all your life, my dear, on a profile?” 


Prom the Princess dl San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to the Lady 
Gwendolen Chichester, St. Petersburg. 

” Because almost all Englishmen have snub noses. Englishwomen 
always think there is something immoral and delusive about a good 
profile. At all events, you will admit that the latter ;s tlie more 
agreeable object- of contemplation. It still rains, rains dreadfully. 
The meadows are soaked, and they can’t get the hay in, and we 


A RAIKY JUNE. 


55 


can’t get out of the house. Piero does smoke, and he does yawn. 
He has been looking in the library for a French novel, but there is 
nothing except Mrs. Craven’s goody-goody books, and a boys’ tale 
by Jules Verne. I am afraid you and mamma are right. Coombe, 
4n a wet June, is not the place for a Roman, who knows his Paris 
by heart, and doesn’t like the country anywhere. We seem to do 
nothing but eat. 1 put on an ulster and high boots,' and 1 don’t 
mind the rain a bit; but he screams when he sees me in an ulster. 

‘ You have no more figure in that thing than if you were a bologna 
sausage,’ he says to me, and certainly ulsteis are very ugly. But 1 
had a delicious fortnight with the duchess in a driving tour in West- 
meath. We only took our ulsters with us, and it poured all the 
time, and we stayed in bed in the little inns while our things dried, 
and it was immense fun; the duke drove us. But Piero would not 
like that sort of thing. He is like a cat about rain. He likes to 
shut the house up early, and have the gas lit, and forget that it is 
all slop and mist outside. He declares that we have made a mistake 
in the calendar, and that it is November, not June. 1 change my 
gowns three times a day, just as it there were a large house-party, 
but 1 feel 1 look awfully monotonous to him. I am afraid 1. never 
was amusing. I always envy those women who are all chic and 
‘ go;’ who can make men laugh so at rubbish. They seem to cany 
about with them a sort of exhilarating ether. 1. don’t think they are 
the best sort of women, but they do so amuse the men. I would 
give twenty years of my life if I could amuse Piero. He adores me, 
but that is another thing. That does not prevent him shaking the 
barometer and yawning. He seems happiest when he is talking 
Italian with his servant, Toniello. Toniello is allowed to play bill- 
iards with him sometimes. He is a very gay, merry, saucy, beau- 
liful-eyed Roman. He has made all the maids in the house and all 
the farmers’ daughters round Coombe in love with him, and 1 told 
you how he had scandalized one of the best tenants, Mr. John Best. 
The Bedford rustics all vow vengeance against him, but he twangs 
his mandolin and sings away at the top of his voice and doesn’t 
care a straw that the butler loathes him, the house-steward abhors 
him, the grooms would horsewhip him if they dared, and the young 
farmers audibly threaten to duck him in the pond. Toniello is very 
fond of his master, but he does not extend his allegiance to me. Do 
you remember Mrs. Stevens, Aunt Caroline’s model housekeeper? 
You should see her face when she chances to hear Piero talking and 
laughing with Toniello. 1 think she believes that the end of the' 
world is come. Piero calls Toniello JiyZw mio and caro mio, just as 


56 


A llATKY JUNE. 


if they were cousins or brothers. It appears this is the Italian way. 
They are very proud in their own fashion, but it isn’t our fashion. 
However, 1 am glad the man is there when 1 hear the click of the 
billiard balls, and the splash of the raindrops on the window-panes. 
We have been here just three weeks. ‘ Dio, it seems three years,’ 
Piero said, when I reminded him of it this morning. For me, 1 
don’t know* whether it is like a single day’s dream or a whole eter- 
nity. You know what 1 mean. But 1 wish — 1 wish— it seemed 
either the day’s dream or the eternity of paradise to him! 1 dare say 
it is all my fault in coming to these quiet, bay-windowed Queen 
Anne rooms, and the old-fashioned servants and the dreary lookout 
over the soaking hay fields. But the sun does come out sometimes, 
and then the wet roses smell so sweet and the wet lime blossoms 
glisten in the light and the larks sing overhead, and the woods are 
so green and so fresh. Still, 1 don’t think he likes it, even then; it 
is all too moist, too windy, too dim for him. When 1 put a rose in 
bis buttonhole this morning it shook the drops over him and he 
said, * Mats qnel pays ! — meme unefleur e'est une doxiche d' eaufroide ! ' 
Last month, it 1 had put a dandelion in his coat, he would have 
svorn it had the odor of the magnolia and the beauty of the orchid. 
It is just twenty-two days since we came here, and the first four or 
five days he never cared whether it rained or not; he only cared to 
lie at my feet, really, literally. We were all in all to each other, 
just like Cupid and Psyche. And now — he will play billiards with 
Toniello to pass the time and he is longing for his peiiis theatres. Is 
it my fault? 1 torment myself with a thousand self-accusations. Is 
it possible 1 can have been tiresome, dull, overexacting? Is it pos- 
sible he can be disapiwinted in me?" 


From Ihe Lady Gwendolen Chichester, St. Petersburg, to the Prin- 
cess di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset. 

“ No, it isn’t your fault, j^ou dear little donkey; it is only the 
natural sequence of things. Men are always like that when the 
woman loves them; when she don’t, they behave much better. 
My dear, this is just what is so annoying about love; the man’s 
is always going slower and slower toward a dead stop, as the 
woman’s is ‘ coaling ’ and getting steam up. 1 borrow papa’s 
admirably accurate metaphor; nothing can be truer. It is a great 
pity, but 1 suppose the fault is Nature’s. Enire nous, 1 don t 
think Nature ever contemplated marriage, any more than she did 
crinolcttes, pearl powder or the electric light. There is no doubt 


A RAIKY JUKE. 


57 


that Nature intended to adjust the thing on the butterfly aod 
buttercup system; onXXiaje reste, ms principle. And nothing 

would be easier or nicer, only there are children and poverty. So 
the butterfly has to be pinned down by the buttercup. That is why 
the communists and the anarchists always abolish property and 
marriage together. The one is evolved out ot (he other, just as (he 
dear scientists say the horse was evolved out of a bird, whch I never 
can see makes the matter any easier of comprehension; but still — 
what was I saying?. Oh, 1 meant to say this: you are only lament- 
ing, as a special defalcation and disloyalty in San Zenone, what is 
merely his unconscious and involuntary and perfectly natural alter- 
ation from a lover into a husband. The butterfly is beginning to 
feel the pin which has been run through him to stick him down. It 
is not your fault, my sweet little girl: it is the fault, if at all, of the 
world, which has decreed that the butterfly, to flirt legitimately 
with the buttercup, must suffer the corking-pin. Now, take my 
advice; the pin is in; don’t worry if he writhe on it a little bit; it 
is only what the beloved scientists again call automatic action. Ana 
do try and beat into your little head the fact that a man may love 
you very dearly, and yet yawn a little for the 'petits theatres in the 
silent recesses of his manly breast. Of course, 1 knew this sort of 
rough awakening from delightful dreams is harder for you than it 
is for most, because you began at such tremendous altitudes. You 
had your Huy Bias and Petrarca, and the mandplin and the moon- 
light, had the love-fllters all mixed up in an intoxicating draught. 
Y'ou have naturally a great deal more disillusion to go through than 
if you had married a country squire, or a Scotch laird, who would 
never have suggested any romantic delights. One can not go near 
heaven \\ithout coming down with a crash, like the poor men in the 
balloons. You have been up in your balloon, and you are now com- 
ing down. Ah, my dear, everything depends on how you come 
down ! You will think me a monster for saying so, but it will rest 
so much in your own hands. You won’t believe it, but it will. If 
you come down with tact and good-humor, it will all be right after- 
ward, but if you show temper, as men say of their horses, why, 
then the balloon wall lie prone, a torn, empty, useless bag that will 
never again get oft the ground. To speak plainly, dear, if you will 
receive with resignation and sweetness the unpleasant discovery that 
San Zenone is mortal, you won’t be unhappy, and you will soon get 
used to it; but if you perpetually fret about it you won’t alter him, 
and you will both be miserable, or if not miserable, you will do 
something worse— you will each find your amusement in somebody 


58 


A RAINY JUNE. 


else. 1 know you so well, my poor, pretty Gladys; you want such 
an immense quantity of sympathy and affection; but you won’t get 
it, my dear child. 1 quite undeistand that the prince looks like a 
picture, and he has mane life an erotic poem for you for a month, 
and the inevitable reaction which follows seems dull as ditch-w’ater 
— you would even say as cruel as the grave. But it is nothing new. 
Do try and get that well into your mind. Try, too, and be as light- 
hearted as you can. Men hate an unamusable woman. Make be- 
lieve to laugh at Hie petitsthedtres, if you can’t* really do it; it you 
don’t, dear, he will go to somebody else who will. Why do those 
demimonde women get such preference over us? Only because they 
don’t bore their men. A man would sooner we flung a champagne 
glas§ at his head than cried for five minutes. We can’t fling cham- 
pagne glasses; the prejudices ot our education are against it. It is 
an immense loss to* us; we must make up for it as much as we can 
by being as agreeable as we know how to be. We shall always be 
a do 7 .en lengths behind those others. By the way, you said in one 
of your earliest notes' that you wondered why our mother ever mar- 
ried. 1 am not sufficiently an courant with prehistoric times to be 
able to tell you why, but 1 can see what she has done since she did 
marry. She has always effaced herself in the very wisest and most 
prudent manner. She has never begrudged papa his Norway fish- 
ing or his August yachting, though she knew he could ill afford 
them. She has never bored him with herself or about us. She haS 
constantly urged him to go away and enjoy himself, and when he is 
down with her in the country, she always takes care that all the 
women he admires and all the men who best amuse him shall be 
invited in relays, to prevent his being dull or feeling teased for 
a moment. 1 am quite sure she has never cared tlie least about 
her own wishes, but has only studied his. This is what 1 call 
being a clever woman and a good woman. But 1 fear such women 
are as rare as blue roses. Tiy ard be like her, my dear. She was 
quite as young as you are now when she married. But, unfortu- 
nately, in truth, you are a terrible little egotist. \ ou want to shut 
up this poor young man all alone with you in a kind of attitude of 
perpetual adoration— of yourself. This is what women call nftec* 
tioh; you are not alone in your ideas. Some men submit to this 
sort of demand, and go about forever held tight in a leash, like un- 
slipped pointers The majoritj"— well, the majority bolt. And 1 
am sure 1 should if 1 were one of them. 1 do not think you could 
complain if your beautiful Romeo did. 1 can see you so exactly 
with your pretty little grave face, and your eyes that have such a 


A RAIKY JUNE. 


59 


fatal aptitude for tears: and your solemn little views about matri- 
mony and its reeponsibilities, making yourself quite odious to this 
mirthful Apollo of yours, and innocently believing all the while 
that you are pleasing heaven and saving your own dignitv by being 
so remarkably unpleasant! Are you very angry with me?. 1 am 
afraid so. Myself, 1 would much sooner have an unfaithful man 
than a dull one; the one may be bored by j^ou, but the other bores 
you, which is immeasurably worse.” 


From the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to the Lady 
Gwendolen Chichester, St. Petersburg. 

“ Dear Gwen,— How can you possibly tell what mamma did 
when she was young? 1 dare say she fretted dreadfully. Now, of 
course, she has got used to it — like a^l other miserable women. If 
people marry only to long to be with other people, what is the use 
of being married at all? 1 said so to Piero, and he answered very 
insolently: ‘11 n'y a point! St on U saviat.' He sent for some 
more dreadful French books. Gyp’s and Richepins and Gui de 
Maupassant’s, and he lies about reading them all day long, when 
he isn’t asleep: he is very often asleep in the daytime. He apolo- 
gizes when he is found out, but he yawns as he does so. You say 
1 should amuse him, but 1 can’t amuse him. He doesn’t car^ for 
any English news, and he is beginning to get irritable because 1 can- 
not talk to him in Italian, and he declares my French detestable, 
and there is always something dreadful happening. There has been 
such a terrible scene in the village. Four of the Coombe Bysset 
men, two blacksmiths, a carpenter and a laborer, have ducked 
Toniello in the village pond on account of his attention to their 
womenkind; and.ToniePo, when he staggered out of the weeds and 
the slime, drew his knife on them, and stabbed tw’o very badly. 
Of course, he has been taken up by the constables, and the men he 
hurt moved to the county hospital. The magistrates are furious 
and scandalized; and Piero! Piero has nobody to play billanls with 
him. When the magistrates interrogated him about Toniello, as of 
course they were obliged to do, he got into a dreadful passion be- 
cause one of them said that it was just like a cow^ardly Italian to 
carry a knife and make use of it. Piero absolutely hissed at the 
solemn old gentleman who mumbled this. ‘ And your people,’ he 
cried, ‘ are they so very courageous? Is it better to beat a man into 
a jelly, or kick a woman with nailed bools, as your English mob 


60 


A RAII^Y JUNE. 


does? Where is there anything cowardl}^? He was one againSt 
tour. In my country there is not a night that goes without a ri^sa 
of that sort, but nobody takes any notice. The jealous persons are 
left to fight it out as best they may; after all, it is the women’s 
fault.’ And then he said some things that really 1 can not repeat, 
and it was a mercy that, as he spoke in the most rapid and furious 
French, the old gentleman did not, i think, understand a syllable. 
But they saw he was in a passion, and that scandalized them, be- 
cause, you know, English people always think that you should keep 
your bad temper for your own people at home. Meantime, of 
course, Toniello is in prison, and 1 am afraid they won’t- let us take 
him out on bail, because he has hurt one of the blacksmiths dread- 
fully. Aunt Carry’s solicitors are doing what they can for him, to 
please me; but 1 can see they consider it all peines perdnes for a 
rogue w'-ho ought to be hanged. ‘And to think,’ cries Toniello» 
‘ that in my own country 1 should have all the popido with me. 
Tire very carbineers themselves would have been with me! Ac- 
ciilente a tutti quei goulli, which means, may apoplexy seize these 
fools. ‘They were only the women’s husbands,’ he adds with 
scorn; * they are well worth making a fuss about, cei’tainlyl’ Then 
Fiero consoles him, and gives him cigarettes, and is obliged to leave 
him sobbing and tearing his hair, and l 3 dng face downward on his 
bed of sacking. 1 thought Piero would not leave the poor fellow 
alone in prison, and so 1 supposed he would give up all idea of going 
from here, and so 1 began to say to myself ‘ a quelque chose malheur 
est bon.’ But to-day at luncheon Piero said, ‘ Sai carina ! It was 
bad eumigh with Toniello, but without him, 1 tell you frankly 1 can 
not stand any more of it. With Toniello one could laugh and for- 
get a little. But now — aniina mia, if you do not wish me to kill 
somebody, and be lodged beside Toniello by 5 "our worthy lawgivers, 
you must really let me go to Trouville.’ ‘ Alone!’ 1 said; and I be- 
lieve it is what he did mean, only the horror in my voice frightened 
him from confessing it. He sighed and got up. ‘1 suppose 1 shall 
never be alone any more,’ he said, impatiently. ‘ If only men 
knew what they do when they jn^ixy—on ne nous prendrait jamais. 
No— no. Of course, 1 meant that you must consent to come away 
with me somewhere out of this intolerable place, which is made up 
of fog and green leaves. Let us go to Paris to begin with; there is 
not a soul there, and the theaters are en relache, but it is always de- 
lightful, and then in a week or so we will go down to Trouville; all 
the world is there.’ 1 couldn’t answer him for crying. I’erhaps 
that was best, for I am sure 1 should have said something wicked. 


A EAINY JUIfE. 61 

Which might have divifled us torever. And then what would people 
have thought?” 


From the Lady Gwendolen Chichester, St. Petersburg, to the 
Princess di San Zenone, Coombe Bjsset. 

My poor little dear, are you already beginniug to be miserable 
about what people will think? Then, indeed, your days of joy are 
numbered. It 1 were lo write lo you fifty times I could only repeat 
what 1 have already written. You are not wise, and you are doing 
everything you ought not to do. Of two people who are married, 
there is always one who has the delusion that he or she is necessary 
and delightful to the life of the other. The other generally thinks 
just the contrary. The result is not peace. This gay, charming, 
handsome son of Rome has become your entire world, but don’t sup- 
pose for a moment, my child, that you will ever be his. It is not 
in reason, not in Nature that you should be. If you have the in 
teiligence, the tact and the forbearance required, you may become 
his friend and counselor, but 1 fear you never will have these. Abu 
fret, you weep, and you understand nothing of the masculine tem- 
perament. ‘ 1 see snakes,’ as the Americans observe; and you will 
not have either the coolness or the w isdom required to scotch a 
snake, much less to kill it. Once for all, my poor pet, go cheer- 
fully to Paris, Trouville and all the pleasure places in the world. 
Affect enjoyment .if you feel it not; and try to remember, beyond 
everything, that affection is not to be retained or revived by either 
coercion or lamentation. Once dead, it is not to be awakened by all 
the ‘ crooning ’ of its mourner. It is a corpse, for ever and aye. 
Myself, I fail to see how you could expect a young Italian, wdio has 
all the habits of the great world and the memories of his vie de 
gargon, to be cheerful or contented in a wet June in an isolated En- 
glish country house, with nobody to look at but yourself. Believe 
me, my dear child, it is the inordmate vanity of a woman which 
makes her imagine that she can be sufficient for her husband. 
Nothing but vanity. The cleverer a woman is, the more fully she 
recognizes her own insufficiency, for the amusement of a man, and 
the more carefully (if she be wise) does she take care that this de- 
ficiency in her shall never beTorced upon his observation. Now, if 
you shut a man up with you in a country bouse, with the rain 
raining every day, as in Longfellow’s pr>em, you do force it 
upon him most conspicuousl.y. If you were not his wife, 
1 dare say he would not tire of you, and he might even prefer a gray 


62 


A 11 AIK Y JUKE. 


sky to a blue Due. But as his wife!— oh, my dear, why, why don’t 
you try and understand what a terrible penalty weight you carry in 
the race? Write and tell me all about it. I shall be anxious. 1 am 
so afraid, my sweet little sister, that you think love is all moon- 
light and kisses, and iorget that there are clouds in the sky and 
quarrels on earth. May Heaven save you from both. P. S.— Do 
remember that this same love requires just as delicate handling as a 
cobweb does. If a rough touch break the cobweb, all the uiii-iJ- in 
the world can’t mend it. There is a truth for you. It you pre- 
vent his going to Paris now, he will go in six months’ time, and 
perhaps he will go without you. Perhaps he would be happier at 
Lanciaiio than at Coombe, and he would have all his own people, 
but he would want the petits tJiedires all the same. You are not 
wise, my poor pet; you should make him feel you are one with him 
in his pleasures, not that you and his pleasures are enemies. But 
it is no use to instill wisdom into you; you are very young and very 
much in love. You look on all the natural distractions which he 
inclines to as so many rivals. So they may be, but we don’t beat 
our rivals in abusing them. The really wise way is to tacitly show 
them that we can be more attractive than they; if we can not be so, 
we may sulk or sigh as we will, we will be vanquished by them. 
You will think me very preachy-preachy, and, perhaps, you will 
throw me in the fire unread; but I may say just this much more. 
Dear, you are in love with Love, but beneath Love there is a real 
man, and real men are far from ideal creatures. Now, it is the real 
man that you want to consider, to humor, to study. If the real man 
be pleased, Love will take care of himself; whereas, if you bore the 
real man, Love wdll fly away. If you had been wise, my poor pet, 
1 repeat, you would have found nothing so delightful as Judic and 
Chaumont, and you would have declared that the asphalt excelled all 
the Alps in the world. He does not love you the less because he 
wants to be dans le mou'Dement, to hear what other men are saying, 
-and to smoke his cigar amongst his fellow -creatures.” 


From the Duchessa dell’ Aquila Fulva, Hotel des Roches Noires 
Trouville, France, to the Principe di Zenone, Coombe Bysset, 
Luton, Beds., England. 

” Poor flower in your box of wet moss, what has become of you? 
Are you dead; and dried in your wife’s Tiorfus siccus? She W’ould 
be quite sure of you then, and 1 dare say much happier than if you 
were set forth in anybody else’s bouquet. 1 try in vain to imagine 


A RAtXY JUNE. 


63 


you in that * perfectly proper ’ milieu (is not that correct English, 

‘ perfectly proper?’). Will you be dreadfully changed when one sees 
you again? There is a French proverb which says that the ‘ 3 'ears 
of joy count double.’ The days of ennui certainly count for years, 
and give us gray hairs before we are five and-twenly. But you 
know 1 can not pity you. You would marry an Enelish girl be- 
cause she looked pretty sipping her tea. 1 told you beforehand that 
you would be miserable with her, once shut up in the country. The 
episode of Tohiello is enchanting. What people! to put him in 
prison for a little bit of cliiasso like that! You should never have 
taken his bright eyes and his mandolin to that doleful and damp 
land of precisions. What will they do with him? And what can 
you do without him? The weather here is admirable. There are 
numbers of people one knows. It is really very amusing. 1 go 
and dance every night, and then we play— usually ‘ bac ’ or rou- 
lette. Everybody is very merry. We all talk often of you, and say 
the De Profundis over you, my door Piero. Why did your cruel 
destiny make you see a Sainte Kitouche drinking tea under a lime- 
tree! 1 suppose Sainte IS itouche would not permit it; else why not 
exchange the humid greenness of your matrimonial prison for the 
Rue des Planches and the Casino?” 


From the Prince di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to the Duchessa 
di Aquila Fulva, Trouville. 

” Caiussiaia aha,—] have set light to the fuse! 1 have frankly 
declared that it 1 do not go out of this watery atmosphere and ver- 
dant Bastile, 1 shall perish of sheer inanition and exhaustion. The 
effect of the declaration was tor the moment such that 1 hoped, ac- 
tually hoped, that she was going to get into a passion. It would have 
been so refreshing! After twenty-six days of dumb acquiescence 
and silent tears, it would have been positively delightful to have 
had a storm. But, no! for an instant she looked at me with un- 
speakable reproach; the next her dove’s eyes filled, she sighed, she 
left the room. Do they not say that feather beds offer an admirable 
defense against bullets? 1 feel like the bullet which has been fired 
into the feather bed. The feather bed is victorious. I see the Rue 
des Planches through the perspectives of the watery atmosphere; 
the Casino seems to smile at me from the end of the interminable 
lime-tree avenue, w^hich is one of the chief beauties of this house, 
but, alas, they are both as far off as if Trouville was in the moon. 


64 


A RAINY JITNR. 


What could they do to me if I came alone? Do you know what 
they could do? I have not the remotest idea, but 1 imagine some- 
thing frightful. They shut up their public-houses by force, and 
tlieit dancing places. Perliaps they would shut up me. In Eng- 
land they have a great belief in creating virtue by act of Parliament, 
In myself this enforced virtue creates such a revolt that 1 shall tirer 
sur U mors, and fly before very long. The admired excellence of 
this beautiful estate is that it lies in a ring fence. 1 feel that T shall 
take a leap over that ring-fence. Do not mistake me, cara mia 
Teresina,! am exceedingly fond of my wife. 1 think her quite 
lovely, simple, saintly and truly womanlike. She is exquisitely 
pretty and entirely without vanity; and 1 am certain she is immeas- 
urably my superior morally, and possibly mentally, too. But there 
is always such a long and melancholy ‘ but ’ attached to marriage 
— she does not amuse me in the least. She is always the same. She 
is shocked at nearly everything that is natural or diverting. She 
thinks me unmanly because 1 dislike rain. She buttons about her 
a hideous, straight, water-proof garment, and walks out in a deluge. 
She blushes if 1 try to make her laugh at Figaro, and she goes out 
of the room when 1 mention Troirville. What am 1 to do with a 
woman like this? It is an admirable type, no doubt. Possibly, if 
she had not shut me up in a country house in a wet June, with the 
thermometer at 10 R. and the barometer fixedly at the word Rainy, 

1 might have been always charmed with this St. Dorolhea-like atti- 
tude, and never have found out the monotony of it. But as it is — 

1 yawn till I dislocate my neck. She thinks me a heathen already. 

1 am convinced that very soon she will think me a brute. And 1 
am neither. 1 only want to get out, like the bird in the cage. It is 
a worn simile, but it is such a true one.” 


From the Duchessa di Aquila Fulva, Roches Noires, Trouville, to 
Prince di San Zenone, Coombe, Bysset. 

‘‘PiEBOMio, — In marriage the male bird is always wanting to 
get out, when the female bird does not want him to get out; also 
she is forever tightening the wires over his head, and declaring that 
nothing can be more delightful than the perch which she sits on 
herself. Come to us here. There are any quantities of birds here 
who ought to be in their cages, but are not, and' manage to enjoy 
themselves mme. If only you had married IN icoletta! She 
might have torn your hair occasionally, but she would never have 


A RAiJiV JL'NE. 


66 


bored you. There is only one supreme art necessary for a woman; 
it is to thoroughly understand that she must never be a seccaiura. 
A woman may be beautified, admirable, a paragon oi virtue, a 
marvel of intellect, but if she be a seccatura — uddio ! “W^hereas, 
she may be plain, small, nothing to look at in any way, and a very 
monster of sins, big and little, but if she knew how to amuse your 
dull sex, she is mistress of you all. It is evident that this great art 
is not studied at Coombe Bysset.” 


From the Princess di San Zen one, Coombe Bysset, to the Lady 
Gwendolen, Chichester, St, Petersburg. 

“On, MY DEATi Gwen,— It is too dreadful, and I am utterly 
wretched. 1 can not tell you what 1 feci. He is quite determined 
to go to Trouville by Paris at once, and just now it is such exqui- 
site weather. It has only rained three times this week, and the 
whole place is literally a bower of roses of every kind. He has been 
very restless the last few days, and at last yesterday, after dinner, 
he said straight out that he had had enough of Coombe, and he 
thought we might be seen at Homburg or Trouville next week. And 
he pretended to ant ever}’' kind of thing that is to be bought at 
Paris and nowhere else. Paris — when we have been together just 
twenty-nine days to-day! Paris— 1 don’t know why, but 1 feel as 
if it would be the end of everything. Paris— we shall dine at res- 
taurants; we shall stay at the Windsor; w^e shall go to theaters; he 
will be at his club, he belongs to the Petit Cercle and the Mirilton; 
we shall be just like anybody else; just like all the million and one 
married people who are always in a crowd. To take one’s new- 
born happiness to a hotel! It is as profane as it would be to say 
your prayers on the top of a drag. To me it is quite horrible. And 
it will be put in ‘ Galignani ’ directly, of course, that the ‘ Prince 
and Princess San Zenone have arrived at the Hotel Bristol.’ And 
then all the pretty women who tried to flirt with him before will 
laugh, and say: ‘There, you see, she has bored him already!’ 
Everybody will say so, for they all know T wished to spend the 
whole summer at Coonihe. If he would only go to his own country 
1 would not say a word. 1 am really longing to see his people, and 
bis palaces, and the wonderful gardens with their statues and their 
ilex woods, and the temples that are as old as the days of Augus- 
tus, and the fireflies and the magnolia groves, and the peasants who 
are always singing. But he won’t go there. He says it is a secca* 
S 


A RAINY .TUNE. 


6r, 

lu.ra. Everything is a seccatura. He only likes places v;here he can 
meet all the world. ‘ Paris will be a solitude too, never fear,’ he 
said very petulantly; for there will be all the petit iMdtres and the 
open air concerts, and "we can dine in the Bois and down the river, 
and we can run to Trouville. It will be better than rain, rain, rain; 
and nothing to look at except your amiable aunt’s big horses and 
big trees. 1 adore horses, and trees are not bad if they are planted 
away from the l.ouse, but viewed as eternal companions, one ma}'- 
have too much of them.’ And 1 am his eternal companion, but it 
seems already 1 don’t count. 1 have not said anything. 1 know 
one oughtn’t. But Piero saw how it vexed me, and it made him 
cross. ‘ Cara mia,' he said, ‘ why did you not tell me before we 
married that you intended me to be buried in a box under wet 
leaves like a rose that is being sent to the mai icet? I should have 
known what to expect, and 1 do not like wet leaves.’ 1 could not 
help reminding him that he had been ever, ever so anxious to come 
to Coombe. Then he laughed, but he was very cioss, too. ‘ Could 
1 tell, anima mia' he cried, ‘ that Coombe w^as situated in a suc- 
cession, of lagoons, contains not one single French novel, is fifi.een 
miles asunder from- its own railway station, and is blessed with a 
population of day-laborers! What man have 1 seen since I have 
been here except .your parish priest, who mumbles, wears spectacles, 
and tries to give me a tract against the Holy P’ather? In this coim- 
try you do not know what it is to be warm. You do not know what 
sunshine is like. You take an umbrella when go you into the gar- 
den. YTou put on a water-proof to go and hear one little shivering 
nightingale sing in a wet elder bush. 1 tell you I am tired of your 
country, absolutely tired. You are an angel. No doubt you are 
an angel : but you can not console me for the intolerable emptiness 
of this intolerable life, where there is nothing on earth to do but to 
eat, drink and sleep, and drive in a dog-cart.’ All this he said in 
one breath, in a flash of forked lightning, as it were. Now that I 
write it down, it does not seem so very dreadful; but as he, with 
the most fiery scorn, the most contemptuous passion, said it, 1 as- 
sure you it was terrible. It revealed, just as the flash of lightning 
w'ould show a gravel pit, how fearfully bored he has been all the 
time 1 thought he was happy!” 


A KAIN'Y JUNE. 07 

From Lady Gwendolen Chichester, St. Petersbiiri^, to the Princess 
di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset. 

“ Men are very easily bored, my dear, if they have any brains; it 
is only the dull ones who are not.” 


F rom the Princess di San Zenone to the Lady Gwendolen Chichester. 

” If 1 believed what your cynical letter says, I should leave him 
to morrow. I would never live through a succession of delusions 
and ot insults.” 


From the Lady Gwendolen Chichester to the Princess di San 

Zenone. 

” Where are your principles? Where are your duties? My dear 
little girl, you have married him as he is. Marriages wouldn’t last 
two days if, just because the man yawned, the womsn ran away. 
Men always yawn. Hitherto, all San Zenone’s faults appear to 
consist in the very pardonable fact that, being ah Italian, he is not 
alive to the charms of bucolic England in rainy weather, and that, 
being a young man, he wants to see his Paris again. Neither of 
these seem to me irreparable crimes. Go to Paris and try to enjoy 
yourself. After all, if his profile be so beautiful you ought to be 
sufficiently happy in gazing at it from the back ot a baignoir. 1 
grant that it is not the highest amatory ideal — to rush about the 
boulevards in a claument, and eat delicious little dinners in the cafes, 
and laugh at Judic or Chaumont afterward; but V amour pent se 
nicker anywhere. And love won’t be any the worse for having his 
digestion studied by good cooks, and his possible ennui exorcised 
by good plaj^ers. You see for yourself that the great passion yawns 
after a time. Turn back to what jmu call my cynical letter, and 
read my remarks upon Nature. By the way, 1 entirely deny tnat 
they are cynical. On the contrary, 1 inculcate on you pa- 
tience, sweetness of temper, and adaptibility to circumstances; 
three most amiable qualities. If 1 were a cynic, 1 should 
say to you that Marriage is a Mistake, and two capital letters could 
hardly emphasize this melancholy truth sufficiently. But as there 
are meu and women, and, as 1 before observed, property, in the 
world, nothing better for the consolidation of rents and freeholds 
has, as yet, been discovered. 1 dare say Krapotkine in his prison 
could devise something better, but they are afraid of him; so we all 


68 


A HA I AY JU-lN^E. 


jog on In the old routine, vaguely conscious that we are all blun- 
derers, but indisposed for such a drastic remedy as would alone cure 
us. Just y(‘U remark to any lawyer that marriage is a mistake, as 1 
have said before, and see what answer you will get. He will cer- 
tainly reply to j’ou that there is no other way of securing the trans- 
mission ot property safely. 1 confess that this view of wealth makes 
me, for one, a most desperate Radical. Onlj- think, it there were 
no property we should all be frisking about in our happy valleys as 
tree and as merry as little kids. 1 shouldn’t now be obliged to put 
on all my war paint and beads like a savage, and go out to a dread- 
ful court dinner, four hours long, because George has a “ career,” 
and thiid?s my suffering advances it. Oh, you liappy child, to 
have nothing worse to do than to rattle down the Bois in a milord 
and sup oft a matelote by the lake with your Romeo 1” 


From the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe Bysset, to the Lady 
Gwendolen Chichester, St. Petersburg. 

” VVe are to leave for Paris andTrouville to-morrow. 1 have yield- 
ed — as you and mamma seemed to think it my dutj' to do. But my 
life is over. 1 shall say farewell to all happ'ness when the gates of 
Coombe Bysset close upon me. Henceforth we shall be like every- 
body else. However, you can not reproach me any longer with 
being selfish; nor can he. There is a great friend of his, the Duchess 
of Aquila Fulva, at Trouville. She writes to him very often, 1 
know. He never offers to show me her letters. 1 believe the choice 
of Trouville is her doing. Write to me at Paris at the Windsor.” 


From the Lady Gwendolen Chichester, St. Petersburg, to the 
Princess di San Zenone, Hotel Windsor, Paris. 

” My poor child! Has the green-eyed monster already invaded 
your gentle soul because he doesn’t show you his own letters? M}" 
dear, no man who was not born a cur would show a woman’s letters 
to his wife. Surely you wish your hero to know the A B C ot gentle 
manners? 1 am delighted you are going into the world; but if you 
only go as a ‘ dut\^ ’ 1 am afraid the results won’t be sunshiny. 
‘ Duty ’ is such a very disagreeable thing. It always rolls itself np 
like a hedgehog, with all its prickles our, turning forever round and 
round on the axle of its own self-admiration. If you go to Trou- 


A RAINY JUKE. 


6P 


ville. and wherever else you do go, en martyr, my dear, you will 
give the mischievous duchess, if she be mischievous, a terrible ad- 
vantage over you at starting. If you mean to be silent, unpleasant 
and enwrapped in gloomy contemplation of your own merits and 
wrongs, don’t blame him if he spends his time at the Casino with his 
friend, or somebody worse. I am quite sure you mean to be un- 
selfish, and you fancy you are so, and all the rest of it, quite honest- 
ly; but in real truth, as 1 told you before, you are only an egotist. 
You would rather keep this unhappy Piero on thorns beside you 
than see him enjoy himself with other people. Now, 1 call that 
shockingly selfish; and if you go in that spirit to Trouville, he will 
soon begin to wish, my dear child, that he had never had a fancy to 
come over to a London season. 1 can see you so exactly!— too 
dignified to be cross, too offended to be companionable, silent, re- 
proachful, terrible!” 


From the Lady Mary Bruton, Boches Noires, Trouville, to Mrs. 
d’Arcy, British Embassy, Berlin. 

“ July 15. 

” — Amongst the new arrivals here are the San Zenone. Y’ou re- 
member me telling you of their marriage some weeks ago. It was 
quite the marriage of the season. They really were immensely in 
love with each other, but that stupid month down in the country 
has done its usual work. In a rainy June, too! Of course any poor 
Antonio would emerge from his captivity bedraggled, dripping and 
disenchanted. She is really very pretty— quite lovely, indeed— but 
she looks fretful and dull. Her handsome husband, on the contrary. 
Is as gay as a lark which has found the door of his cage wide open 
one morning. There is here a great friend of his, a Duchessa 
del’ Aquila Fulva. She is very gay, too. She is always perfectly 
dressed, and chattering from morning tonight in shrill Italian or 
voluble French. She is the cynosure of all eyes as she goes to swim 
in rose-colored maillot, with an orange and golden eastern burnose 
flung about her artistically. She has that wonderful Venetian 
coloring which can stand a contrast and glow of color which would 
simply Rill any other woman. She is very tall and magnificently 
made, and yet uncommonly graceful. Last night she was persuaded 
to dance a salierello with San Zenone at the Maison Persane, and it 
was marvelous. The}’’ are both such handsome people, and threw 
such a wonderful brio, as they would call it, into the affair. The 
poor pretty little princess, looking as fair and dull as a primrose in 


70 


A KAIInY JUNE, 


a shower, sal looking on dismally— stupid little thing!— as if that 
would do her any good! A tew days ago Lord Hampshire arrived 
off here in his yacht. He was present at the salterello, and as 1 saw 
him out in the gardens afterward with the neglected one, sitting be- 
side her in the moonlight, 1 presume he was offering her syriipathy 
and consolation. He is a heavy young fellow, but exceedingly good- 
humored and kind-hearted. He would have been in heaven in the 
wet June at Coombe Bysset- but she refused him, silly little thing ! 
1 am quite angry with her; she has had her own way and she won’t 
make the best of that. 1 met her and her rejected admirer riding 
together this morning toward Yillerville, while the beautiful prince 
was splashing about in the water with his Venetian friend. 1 see a 
great many eventful complications ahead. Well — they will all be 
the fault of that Rainy June!” 


THE END, 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY 


By MRS. HENRY WOOD. 


PART THE FIRST. 

An incident savoring strongly of romance occurred many years 
ago in one ot the midland counties of England. It is a true story. 

There stood one morning in the post-office of the chief town of 
Highamshire (as we will call it) two gentlemen sorting letters. The 
London mail had just come in, bringing its multiplicity of business. 
They were the postmaster* of Higham and his sob. The former, 
most deservedly respected by his fellow citizens, and well connected, 
had held the situation for many years; the latter, a handsome young 
man, looked forward to holding the situation after him. 

“ Ready,” cried out Mr. Giame, in a loud tone; and the side- 
door opened, and four men entered, and ranged themselves in front 
of the counter. They were the town postmen, and each receiving 
his separate freight, departed for his allotted quarter of the city. 
It was striking half-past nine as they left the post-office; an hour 
considered to be good lime in those days, 

Mr. Grame and his son continued their work; that of making-up 
the bags for the cross-country towns and villages, itpon one letter, 
as it came under his observation, Mr. Grame’s eye rested rather 
longer than on the rest, 

‘‘ Here’s Farmer Sterling’s letter at last, Walter,” he observed to 
his son. 

” Has it come?” cried the young man, in a lively tone, while he 
suspended for a moment his own employment, and leaned toward 
his father, to look at the address ot the letter in question. ” ‘ Mr. 
Sterling, Hill House Farm, Layton. Highamshire.’ Ah! he need 
not have been so fidgety over it; 1 told him it would be all right.” 

“ He has never been otherwise than fidgety over this yearly 
letter,” 

“ Because of the money it contains,” rejoined Walter. 


72 


THE HAIL-CART KOBRERY. 


At that moment somebody’s knuckles came rapping at the glazed 
window; and Mr. Grame, who stood next it, pushed ba(^k the wooden 
slide from an open pane and looked out. But, first of all, he 
dropped the letter foi Faimer Sterling safely into the Layton bag. 

“ Is that there letter come yet, sir?” inquired the voice at the 
window. 

” Oh, is it you. Stone? 1 don’t think it is. What was to be the 
address?” 

“ Miss Parker, Post-ofiice, till called for.” 

” Ay, no, it is not arrived. Better luck to-morrow, perhaps. ” 

“It’s my belief it won’t come at all. The young woman, you 
know, replied to the advertisement for a housekeeper, which was 
in the ‘ Higham Herald ’ last Saturday week. 1 tel I’d her yesterday 
that perhaps she’d have no answer. Did 3 mu hear ot Ned Cook’s 
shop being broke into last night, sir?” 

” No,” shortly answered the postmaster, “lam busy now, and 
can’t talk,” 

And the board slid sharply back again, nearly shutting up the 
end of Mr. Stone’s nose with it. ” Good-day, gentlemen,” said 
that discomfited applicant, as he moved away. 

A little more work in the post-office, and then Mr. Grame called 
out as before, ‘‘Weirford and Layton bags ready!” And a tall, 
fine young man with an open countenance, looking much more like 
a genlleman than like the driver of a village mail-cart, came in. 

” Not a heavy freight this morning, John,” observed ]\Ir. Grame, 
as he handed over the bags, secured only v\ith string, the caieless 
practice of the Higham post-office in those days, and of other post- 
offices, also. ” Have you had jmur horse rough-shod?” 

” All right and ready,” responded John Ledbittei, with a pleasant 
smile. 

‘‘Or 1 don’t know how 3 ’'ou would get to Layton; the roads 
must be dreadful. Take care that you start back in good time, or 
3 mu may be too late tor the evening mail.” 

‘‘I’ll lake care,” answered the young man. ‘‘As to the roads, 
if anybody can drive over them 1 can, let them be what they will. 
Any commands ” — dropping his voice as he spoke to the son — ” for 
the Farm, Mr. Waller?” 

‘‘ Are you going there this morning?” 

” It 1 don’t change my mind. Can 1 carry any message, 1 say?” 

‘‘ I?o,” sharply replied Mr. Walter Grame, and John Ledbitter 
laughed to himself as he went out with the bags. 

Locking them into the box of his cart, an open vehicle, and 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


73 


taking his seat, he drove out ot the town toward Layton, as fast as 
the dangerous roads would allow. It was the month of January, 
and Jack Frost had come down with all his severity; snow on the 
fields, icicles on the trees, frozen snow and ice lyins in wait to break 
limbs on the road. But John Ledbilter’s horse had been prepared 
for the state of affairs, and he drove him cautiously. 

“ It’s too bad of me, but 1 do like to nettle him,” he said to him- 
self, as he laid the reins on the dash-board, and began to beat his 
arms, to bring a little feeling into them. ” ‘ Are you going iherer 
cries he so sharply, when I mischievously asked him if he had any 
commands for the farm. Many a day does not pass over my head 
but 1 do go there. Master Walter, and that you’ll find out, soon. 
Now, Saucy Sir! hold up!” 

” The idea of Ms making up to her,” continued Mr. John Led- 
bitter, tightening the reins. •” She’s a mile and a half loo good for 
him. Why is it 1 never liked the fellow? She has nothing to do 
with the dislike; he always repelled me years before 1 thought of 
her. He is a handsome man, an agreeable companion, has plenty 
of intellect— -yes, all that. But, there’s a turn in his expression that 
1 don’t like, something crafty, not genuine; other people may not 
see it, but 1 know it repels me. And look at the fellow’s vanity 
where women are concerned! He thinks that he has only to ask 
Selina and have her. Not so fast, Mr. Waller Grame; Selina cares 
more for my little finger than she does for your whole self— as the 
old song goes: 


“ ‘ Despise her not, said Lord Thomas, 

Despise her not unto me, 

For I love thy little finger 
Better than her whole body.’ 

Gently, Saucy Sir! keep your feet if you please to-day, of all days 
in the year.” 

Finding his whole attention must be directed to the care ot his 
horse, John Ledbitter put off his reflections to a more convenient 
season. At length he reached Layton, a small town about seven 
miles from Uigham, having left the other bag at Weirford on his 
way. He drove straight to the post-office, unlocked his cart, and 
delivered the Layton bag to the postmaster, Mr. Marsh. 

“ A sharp day,” remarked the latter. 

” Sharp enough,” replied John. ” 1 have had some trouble with 
the horse, 1 can tell you.” . 

“ It’s a wonder he kept his feet at all. Sir Geoffrey Adams’ 


74 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


bailiff was comino: down yonder hill last night on the bay mare, 
and down she went, and broke her leg. Had to be shot,” 

“Nol” 

” 1 stepped up and saw her lying there in the road, Mr. Led- 
bitter; her groans, poor thing, were just like a human creature’s. 
Sir Geoffrey was called out from his dinner, and shot her with his 
own hand. He was awful with Master Bailiff over it. and told him 
it he had been human enough to lead her down the hill, it would 
not have happened. He was cut up too, and didn’t offer a word of 
excuse to Sir Geoffrey. Good-day, if you are off to put up Saucy 
Sir.” 

The mail-cart and Saucy Sir being comfortably deposited at their 
usual quarters, John Ledbitter took asliarp walk of twenty minutes, 
which brought him to Hill House Farm. Taking off: his great coat 
and leggings before he entered the sitting-room, he appeared in 
morning attire usually worn in those days by gentlemen. 

‘‘ Here’s a morning!” he said, as a fair, quiet looking girl rose 
at his entrance, the farmer’s only child. Many would have called 
Miss Sterling’s features plain, but in her gentle voice and truthful 
earnest eyes Jay plenty of attraction, 

” vvhat a joprney you must have had!” she exclaimed, giying 
him her hand. 

” Ay, indeed. 1 thought once it would have come to my carry- 
ing Saucy Sir. Where’s Selina?” 

Before Miss Sterling could reply her father entered. ” Ah, 
Master Ledbitter, is it you?” he said. ” Well, d’ye think you have 
brought that letter of mine to-day?” 

‘‘ 1 don’t know,” laughed the young man. ” 1 have brought the 
bag. 1 cannot say what letters are in it.” 

‘‘ Well, 1 can’t account for the delay. If that letter’s lost, there’s 
fifty pounds gone. And fifty pounds are not picked up in a day. 
Master Ledbitter.” 

Some few years before this the sister of Mrs. Sterling, who had 
married a Mr. Cleeve and settled in London, died, leaving one only 
daughter. Mr. Cleeve married again, ana then the child was con- 
signed to the home and care of Mrs. Sterling, Mr. Cleeve forward- 
ing every Christmas a £50 note to cover her expenses. It was this 
note that Farmer Sterling was so anxious to receive; and each year, 
from the moment Christmas-day was turned until the money w'as 
actually in hand, he never ceased worrying himsell and everybody 
about him, with conjecUires that the note was lost. It had been 
pointed out to him several times that to have the money conveyed 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY* 


75 


ID a letter was not a very safe Daode of transit. But the farmer 
would answer that it had alwa3^s come safely hitherto (tliough with . 
delay), and he had no time, not he, to go driving into Higham to 
receive it from the bankers there. So that Mr. Sterling continued 
to expect and receive this important letter and its inclosure every 
year; a well-known fact to all Layton, and to half Higham. This 
was the letter noticed by the postmaster that morning, as he sorted 
it into the Layton bag. 

Selina Cleeve, now grown up, and about the age of her cousin, 
was a tall, well-educated, handsome, dark-eyed girl, full of fun and 
laughter; she played and sung like the nightingales in Laydon Wood 
(as people were wont to express it), rode her horse with ease and 
grace, and took everybody’s heart by storm. All the bachelor farm* 
ers were quarreling for her; and many a fine gentleman from Hig- 
ham wore out his horse’s shoes riding over to Hill House Farm. 
They might have spared themselves the trouble; the farmers tlieir 
quarreling, and the gentlemen their steeds, for the young lady’s 
heart was given to John Ledbitter; but,, woman-like, she kept this 
to herself, and evinced no objection to the universal admiration. 
As to Anne Sterling, no fine gentleman noticed her; her attractive 
cousin was all in all. The housekeeping and other household man- 
agement devolved on Anne; who had been as well-educated as her 
cousin, except in the matter of some accomplishments. Mrs. Ster- 
ling was an invalid, and sometimes did not leave her room for days 
together. 

“ Shall you be able to come to-night?” said Anne Sterling to Mr. 
Ledbitter, as her father left the parlor. 

” With this weather, Anne?” he returned, halt jestingly. 

‘‘ But the moon will be up. Do try.” 

‘‘ You unreasonable girl! the moon will not dissolve the ice on 
the roads What is it you are doing there so industriously?” 

‘‘ Cutting papers for the candlesticks,” rejoined Anne. This is 
the last. And now 1 must hasten into the kitchen. 1 have a 
thousand-and-one things to do to-day, and the maids’ heads seem 
turned,” 

” Can 1 help you?” 

” No,” laughed Anne, ” you would be a hinderance, 1 suspect, in- 
stead of a help. Selina will be here directly.” 

She entered the parlor as Anne Sterling left it. A stylish girl, in 
a rich plaid silk dress, her black hair worp in heavy braids round 
her head. Selina’s private allowance from her father was liberal, 
and she dressed in accordance with it. Upon her entrance, John 


76 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


Ledbitter’s manner changed to one of deep tenderness. He closed 
the door, and drew her fondly to him. 

“ Oh, John!” were her first words, “ what unfortunate weather 
for our parly to-night! You will never be able to come.” 

” My darling! Had 1 to walk every step of the way^ here and 
back, and could remain but time to snatch one word with you, 1 
should not fail to come,” 

” But you will have both to come and return in the night! Others 
can choose the daylight.” 

‘‘ The first dance, remember, Selina, after i do get here. Who 
comes from Higham? Walter Grame, of course.” 

” Of course. And his sisters come, and several others: all the 
young lawyers and doctors in the town, 1 think. AYalter Grame 
has engaged me for the first and last dances, you will not be here 
at either. And as many more as 1 would accord him between, he 
said.” 

John Ledbitter laughed, a meaning laugh, and his eye twinkled 
mischievously. ” Selina,” he whispered, ‘‘1 fear his case is des- 
perate. W’hat say you?” 

She understood him. And though she did not say it in words, 
he read the answer in her bent, happy countenance. 

Delaying his departure as long as was prudent, and still talking 
with Miss Cleeve, John Ledbitter at length rose to go. In the 
kitchen, where he went to don his overalls and rough coal, he met 
Molly, carrying out a tray of mince pies and small tartlets. jMolly 
had lived in tne family for twenty years; and tyrannized in conse- 
quence over the other servant, Joan, who had been in it on!}" ten. 

” Don’t they look first-rate!” cried Molly to the young man, who 
was coolly helping himself. ” But they be nothing, Mr. John; just 
please step in here.” Opening the door of a large room, she proud- 
ly disclosed to view the long supper-table, already laid out with its 
tempting dainties, and decorated with holly and laureltinas. A 
magnificent twelfth-cake stood in the middle, for it was Twelfth 
Day. A bright fire of wood and coal blazed away in the grate, 

” Grand! Glorious!” exclaimed John. ‘‘ Why, you must have 
had half the pastry-cooks in the parish here to prepare all tliose 
sweets and jellies!” 

‘‘ Pastry-cooks! what next?” cried the offended Molly. ” Miss 
Anne and me did ’em all ourselves. You won’t find Miss Anne’s 
match in this county, Mr. Ledbitter; nor in any other. My mistress 
has brought her up right well. She don’t play the pianer, it’s true; 
and she don’t spend hours over her hair, a setting ot it off in out- 


THE MAIL-CAET KOBBEKY 


17 

iandish winds about her head; and she don’t dress in silks the first 
thins in a morning,” satirically added Molly, with an allusion to 
somebody else, which Mr. ^ohn perfectly well understood, and 
laughed at. ” But see Miss Anne in illness: who tends a sick 
body’s bed like she?— hear her pleasant voice a-soothing any poor 
soul what’s in trouble— look how she manages this house, and gives 
counsel to master about the farm out-doors! No, Mr. John: you 
young gentlemen like to please your eye, but give me one who has 
got qualities inside of ’em that will shine out when hair's gray and 
pianers is rusty.” 

John Ledbitter turned away laughing. He ran against the farmer 
in the kitchen. 

“ Are you coming to their fine doings to-night, Mr. LedbitterV” 

“ If 1 can get here.” 

” Bless the foolish women, 1 say; putting things about, like this, 
for a night’s pleasure! 1 don’t know -our house upstairs, Mr. 
John; 1 don’t, 1 assure you. They have made the big best bedroom 
into the dancinir-room, and covered the walls with green leaves and 
sconces for candles, and chalked the floor. 1 won’t be candle- 
snuffer.” 

” There won’t be no snuflSng wanted, master,” interposed Molly, 
tartly. “ The candles is wax.” 

” Wax! 1 said I'd have no wax candles in the house again,” re- 
torted the farmer. “ The last tiine we had one of these affairs, I 
got my best blue coat covered with its droppings.” 

“Never you mind the droppings, master,” cried Molly, “the 
room will look beautiful.” 

“It had need to,” rejoined the farmer. “ 1 shall stop in the 
kitchen and smoke my pipe. Good-day, Mr. John, it you are 
going.” 

Mr John had to go, though no doubt his will would have inclined 
him to stay. In half an hour’s time he was driving Saucy Sir back 
to Higham with the Layton and Weirford letter bags for the even- 
ing mail, which was made up at Higham in the afternoon. 

A merry scene that evening at the Hill House Farm! It was the 
custom in the neighborhood for the more wealthy farmers to hold 
annually one of these entertainments, which were distinguished by 
great profusion of dainties, a hearty welcome, and thorough enjoy- 
ment. Dancing was kept up till daylight, then came breakfast, and 
then the guests dispersed. At Mr. Sterling's the party had been 
omitted for the last two years, in consequence of Mrs. Sterling’s 
precarious state of health; now, as she was somewhat better, it 


78 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


renewed again. Mr. Sterling was highly regarded by all. In spite 
of his rustic mode of speech, he was a superior man. 

The ball began with a country dance, alw’ays the first dance at 
these meetings, the Vicar of Layton opening it with Miss Sterling. 
He had just been presented to the living — a very poor one, by the 
way — and as yet knew but tew of his parishioners personally; he 
was a young man, and enjoyed the dancing as much as anybody. 
Next to them stood young Mr. Grame and Selina Cleeve, by far the 
handsomest couple in the room. Mrs. Sterling sat in an arm-chair 
by the fire, looking pale and delicate, and by her side sat the new^ 
vicar’s mother, who had come to Layton to keep house for him. 
The farmer, as he had threatened, w’as in the kitchen smoking his 
pipe, a knot of elderly friends round him doing the same and dis- 
cussing the slate of the markets; but as they were all in lull dress 
(blue frock coats with brass buttons, drab breeches and gaiters, and 
crimson neckties), their presence in the ball-room might with cer- 
lainty be looked for by and by. 

It was nine o’clock when John Ledbitter entered, in evening 
dress. Some of the young farmers nudged each other. “ He’s 
come to take the shine out of Grame,” they whispered. He did 
take the shine out of him; tor though young Grame could boast of 
his good looks and fine figure, he was not halt so popular as John 
Ledbitter. John made his w’ay at once to Mrs. Sterling and spoke 
with her a little while.- He had a pleasant voice, and the accent 
and address ot a cultivated man. Mrs. Cooper, the clergyman’s 
mother, looked after him as he moved away to take his place in the 
dance. She inquired who he was. 

“ It is John IjGilbitter,” said Anne Sterling. 

“ 1 thought— dear me, what an extraordinary likeness!” said the 
Reverend Mr. Cooper, following John wdth his eyes— “ how like 
that gentleman is to the man who drives the mail-cart! I was no- 
ticing the man this morning as he drove into J^ayton, he appeared 
to manage his horse so skillfully.” 

” John Ledbitter is the driver of the mail cart,” interposed Wal- 
ter Grame, drawing himself up, as much as to say that he would not 
stoop to drive a mail-cart. 

” 1 must explain it to you,” said Mrs. Sterling, noting the per- 
plexed looR of the clergyman. ” Old Mr. Ledbitter, John’s father, 
was an architect and land agent in Higham. He had the best busi- 
ness connection in all the county, but his large family kept his 
profits down, for he reared them expensively and never laid by. So 


THE MAIL-CART KOHRERY. 


70 


\ 

that when he died they had to shift tor themselves, .lohn, the third 
son, had been brought up an agriculturist, and obtained a post as 
manager to the estate of a gentleman who lived much abroad. 
However, the owner sold the property and John lost his situation. 
This was— how long ago, Anne?” 

‘‘ About tour months, mother.” 

‘‘ Ves; and he had held it about three years. Well, poor John 
could not immediately get into anything: one promised him some- 
thing, and another promised him something, but no place seemed 
to drop in. One day he had come over.to see Sir Geoffrey Adams on 
business, and was standing by the post-office here, when the driver 
of the mail-cart tell down in a fit, just as he was about to start, and 
died. There was nobody to drive the cart back to Higham; the 
afternoon was Hying on, and the chances were that the Layton and 
Weirford letters would lose the mail. So John Ledbitter said he 
would drive it; and he did so, and got the bags to Higham in time.” 

” He drove to and tro the next da3% and for several da5's,” inter- 
posed Walter Gratne, who had appeared anxious to speak, ” nobody 
turning up, at the piueh, to whom w'e chose to intrust the bags. 
So my father, in a joke, told Ledbitter he had better keep the nlace; 
and by Jupiter! if he didn’t nail it! The chaffing’s not over in 
Higham yet. Ledbitter can’t walk through the streets but he gets 
in for it. And serve him right: the fellow can expect nothing but 
chaff if he chooses to degrade himself to the level of a mail-cart 
driver.” 

” It is not the pay he does it for, wffiich is trifling, but he argues 
that idleness is the root of mischief; and this daily occupation keeps 
him out of both,” said Anne, looking at Walter Grame. “ He has 
only taken it as a temporary thing, until something better falls in.” 

“ Ledbitter’s one in a thousand,” rang out the bluff voice of 
George Blount, a keen-looking jmung farmer who had just come up 
from the card-room; ” and there’s not one in a thousand that W'ould 
have had the moral courage to defy pride and put his shoulder to 
the wheel as he has done. Is it not more to his credit to take up 
with this honest employment and live on the pay while he’s waiting 
for a place to drop from the clouds, than to skulk idly about Hig- 
ham, and sponge upon his brothers? You dandy town bucks may 
turn up your noses at him for it. Master Grame, but he has showm 
himself a downright sensible man. What do you think, sir?” 
added the speaker, abruptly addressing the clergyman. 

‘‘ It certainly appears to me that this young i\Ir. Ledbitter is to 
be commended,” W'as the reply. “I sec no reflection that can be 


80 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


cast upon him for driving the mail-cart while he waits for some- 
thing more suitable to his sphere of life.” And Anne Sterling’s 
cheeks colored witli pleasure as she heard the words. She knew the 
worth of John Ledbitter: perhaps too woll. 

“ He’ll get on fast,” cried young Blount; ” these steady-minded, 
persevering fellows are safe to rise in the world. In twenty years’ 
time fix)m this, if John Ledbitter has not won himself a home and 
twenty thousand pounds, it will surprise me.” 

” 1 am glad to hear this opinion from you, Mr. Blount, fori think 
you are capable of judging.” observed Mrs, Sterling. *‘ People tell 
me there is an attachment between John Ledbitter and my niece; 
so that we— it it is to come to anything — should naturally be inter- 
ested in his getting on.” 

” 1 hope that is quite a mistaken idea, ma’am; and I think it is,” 
fired NYalter Grarae. ‘‘You would never suffer Miss Cleeve to 
throw herself away on him! There are others—” 

Mrs. Sterling made a motion for silence, for the quadrille was over, 
and the two persons in question were approaching. Selina seated 
herself by her aunt, and the clergyman entered into conversation 
with John Ledbitter. Presently the music struck up again. 

‘‘ It 18 my turn now, Selina,” whispered Walter Grame. 

She shook her head in an unconcerned manner, as she toyed with 
a spray of heliotrope ‘‘ I am engaged to Mr. Ledbitter.” 

‘‘ That is too bad,” retorted IValter Grame, resentfully. ‘‘ You 
danced with him the last dance.” 

” And I have promised him this. How unreasonable you arc, 
Mr. Walter! 1 have danced with you— let me think — three times 
already.” 

Mr Ledbitter turned from the vicar; and without speaking, took 
Selina's hand, and placed it within his arm. But after they moved 
away, he leaned down to whisper to her. There was evidently per- 
fect confidence between them. 

*' 1 think it is so— that they are attached to each other,” remarked 
[Mrs. Cooper, who was watching thern. ‘‘ I hope their prospects 
will — Oh, goodness! my best black silk gown!” 

‘‘ It will not hurt, it is only white wine negus. Anne, get a cloth; 
call Molly,” reiterated Mrs. Sterling. For Mr Walter Grame’s re- 
freshment glass and its contents had fallen from his hand on the 
skirt of Mrs. Cooper’s dress as it lay on the floor. Anne said noth- 
ing, then or afterw\ard, but her impression was that it was thrown 
down, and in passion. The glass lay in fragments. 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


81 


l]figham great market was being held; the first in the new year. 
This was only a tevv days after tlie party. Amongst other farm- 
ers who attended the market was Mr. Sterling. About three o’clock 
in the afternoon, when his business was over, he went into the post- 
office. The postmaster and his son were both there, the latter sit- 
ting down and reading the newspaper. It was not a busy hour. 

“ Good-da}'-, Mr. Grame,” said the former. “ Good day, Master 
Walter. I have come about that letter. 1 do think it must be lost. 
It never was so late before, that I can recollect.” 

” 'Wnat letter?” inquired the postmaster. ^ 

“ Why, that letter— with the fifty pounds in it. I don’t expect 
any other. Y^ou ar-e sure you have not overlooked it?” 

“ The letter went to Layton days ago,” responded Mr. Grame. 

” Did you not receive it?” 

Farmer Sterling’s eyes opened wide with perplexity. ‘‘Went to 
Layton days ago!” he repeated. ‘‘ Where is it, then?” 

” If you have not had it, there must be some mismanagement at 
the Lavion office. But such neglect is unusual with Marsh.” 

” Good mercy! 1 hope it has not been stolen.” 

‘‘ Which morning was it the letter came, Walter?” cried Mr. 
Grame, appealing to his son. ” Oh— I remember — the day you and 
the gil ls were going over to the Hill House Farm. It was the very 
morning of your wife’s ball, Mr. Sterling.” 

‘‘ The morning before, or the morning after?” asked the bewil- 
dered farmer. 

” The same morning, the 6th of January. When Walter and the 
tw'o girls w'eiit over in the evening.” 

‘‘ Now why didn’t you tell me that night that it was come, Mr. 
Walter?” expostulated the farmer. 

” 1 never thought of the letter,” replied the young man, ‘‘ And J 
if I had thought of it, it w'ould only have been to suppose you had ■ 
received it. Y"ou ought to have had it that afternoon. Had you 
happened to mentiou the letter, 1 could have told you it was come.” 

” Nov^ look at that!” groaned the farmer. ” What with the peo- 
ple, and the eating and drinking, the letter never came into my Lead 
at all. Are you quite sure, IVIr. Grame, that it was the viry letter?” 

‘‘lam sure that it was a letter addressed to you, and that it came 
from London. 1 made the remark to Walter that your letter W’as 
come at last. I have not the slightest doubt it was the letter.” 

‘‘ And you sent it on to Layton?” 

” Of course 1 did” 


THE 31 ALL- CART RORKEKY. 


“ But Miss Cleeve called at our post-office yesterday, and Marsh 
assured her no letter at all had arrived for me.” 

“ 1 put it into the Layton bat; myself, and secured the bag my- 
self, as 1 always do,” returned Mr. Grame, ‘‘and the bag was 
never out of my hands till I delivered it to John Ledbitter. My son 
was present and saw me put it in.” 

‘‘1 was,” said Walter. ‘‘When my father exclaimed that Mr. 
Sterling’s letter had come at last, 1 looked over his shoulder at the 
address, and 1 .saw him drop it into the bag. They must have 
overlooked ittMi the Layton office, sir.” 

” Old Marsh is so careful a body,” debated the farmer. 

‘‘ He is,” assented Mr. Grame. ‘‘ 1 don’t suppose he ever over- 
looked a letier in hi.s life. Still such a thing may occur. Go to the 
office as soon as you return, Mr. Sterling, and tell him from me that 
the letier went on to Layton.” 

‘‘ It’s a jolly vexatious thing to have all this bother. It that £50 
note’s gone, it will be my loss. Mi. Cleeve objected to send in that 
way, but 1 told him I’d run the risk.” 

And perhaps here lay the secret of Farmer Sterling’s anxiety 
about the safe arrival of these letters— because he knew that the 
forwarding of the money in this way was in defiance of other people’s 
opinion. 

lire letter never reached Layton— so old Mr. Marsh, the postmas- 
ter there, affirmed, when applied toby the farmer. He remembered 
perfectly the 6th — why it was not a week ago— the day lie told Led, 
bitter of the accident to the bay mare. No soul but himself touched 
the letters; nobody bin himself was present that day when he opened 
the bag; and he could swear that the letter fpr Farmer Sterling was 
not in it. Mr. Marsh’s vvord was a guarantee in itself: he had held 
the situation two score years, and was perfectly trustworthy. 

So the suspicion fell upon ,lohn Ledbitter. Indeed, it may not be 
too much to say that the guilt was traced home to him. The post- 
masters of Higham and Layton were known and tried public serv- 
ants, above all suspicion: the one had put the letter in and secured 
the bag; the other, when he opened the bag, found the letter gone; 
and none could or did have access to the bag between those times 
but John Ledbitter. He was dismissed from his situation as driver; 
but, strange to say, he was not brought to trial. Mr. Sterling de- 
clined to prosecute, and no instructions were received on the subject 
from the government; but John Ledbitter’s guilt was as surely 
brought home to him as it could have been by twelve jurymen. Of 
course he made protest of his innocence — what man, under a similar 


TTTE IVrATLCAP.T KOBBERA". 


83 


accusation, does not?— but his crime was too palpable. Neither the 
letter nor its inclosure could be traced. Mr. Cleeve furnished the 
particulars of the lost note; it was stopped at the London and coun- 
try banks, handbills describing it were also hung up in the diflerent 
public- houses; but it was not presented for payment, and was never 
heard of. “ Saucy Sir must have ate it up with his hay,” quoth 
the joking farmers of Layton, one to another: but if they accident- 
ally met the gentleman driver— as they were wont to style John 
Ledbitter — they regarded him with an aspect very difterent from a 
joking one, 

John Ledbitter entered Mr. Sterling's house only once after this, 
and that was to resign Selina Cleeve; to release her from the tacit 
engagement whicli existed between them. However, he found there 
was little necessity for doing so: Selina released herself. He arrived 
at the Hill House for this purpose at an inopportune moment; for 
his rival — as he certainly aspired to be — was there before him. 

It was Sunday, and when Mr. Stealing and his family got home 
from church in the morning they found Waller Grame there, who 
had ridden over from Higham. He received an invitation to remain 
and partake of their roast griskin and apple-pie. After dinner the 
farmer took his pipe, his wife lay back in her cushioned arm-chair 
on the opposite side of the hearth-rug; and while Anne presided over 
the wine— cowslip, sherry and port— and the filberts and cakes. 
Walter Grame Nvatched Selina. The conversation turned upon John 
Ledbitter and his crime, 

1 do not see how he could accomplish it,” exclaimed Mrs. Ster- 
ling, “unless he stopped the mail-cart, and undid the bag in the 
road.” 

“ Well, what was there to prevent his doing so?” responded her 
husband. 

“ But so deliberate a theft,” repeated Mrs. Sterling. “ 1 can un- 
derstand— at least, 1 think 1 can— the being overcome by a moment 
of temptation; but a man who could stop his horse in a public road, 
unlock the box, and untie the letter-bag for the purpose of robbing 
it, must be one wdio would stand at scarcely any crime.” 

“ Why, that’s just what I told him,” cried the farmer, “ when he 
came to me at Higham, wanting to make a declaration of his inno- 
cence. ‘ What’s gone with the letter and the money,’ Isaid, ‘ if you 
have not got it, Mr. Ledbitter?’ And that shut him up; for all he 
could answer was that he wished he knew what had gone with it.” 

“ Ah,” broke in Walter Grame, “ Ledbitter was a great favorite, 
but I did not like him. And Higham never noticed until now the 


84 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


singularity of his having taken to drive a mail cart. It is the 
opinion of more than one man that the robbery was planned when 
he secured the place.” 

” What, to take that same identical letter of mine?” gasped the 
farmer, laying his pipe on his knee, while a startled look of dismay 
rose to Anne Sterling’s face 

” Not you-va in particular, Mr Sterling. *But probably yours hap- 
pened to be the first letter that presented itself, as bearing an in- 
closure worth the risk.” 

•‘The villainl the double-faced rascall” uttered the farmer. 
” That’s putting the matter — and himself too— in a new light.” 

At that moment Molly entered the room with some silver forks 
and spoons, large and small, and shut the door behind her 

” It's him,” she abruptly said, coming up to the table, with a 
face of terror. ” He says he wants to see Miss Selina.” 

•* Who does?” demanded everybody in a breath. 

” That dreadful young Ledbitter. He come sneaking in at the 
kitchen door: not the front way, or you’d have seen him from this 
winder, but right across the fold-yard. 1 was took all of a heap, 
and asked if he'd walk into the parlor — for 1 was ateard of him. 

• No,’ says he, ‘ I’ll not go in. Is Miss Cleeve there?’ ” 

” ‘ Yes, she is,’ 1 said, ‘ and the mistress, and Miss Anne, and 
the master, and Mr. Walter Grarae; and Joan’s close at hand, a- 
skimming the cream.’ ” For 1 thought he should know 1 was not 
alone in the place, if he had come to steal anything. 

” ‘ Molly,’ says he, quite humbly, ‘ go in and ask Miss Cleeve if 
she will step out and speak a word with me.’ So 1 grabbed up the 
dinner silver, which, by ill-luck, was lying on the table, and away 
1 came.” 

Miss Cleeve rose. Selina 1” said Mrs. Sterling, in a reproving 
tone. 

” Aunt,” was the rejoinder, ” I have also a word to say to him.” 

‘‘But— my dear! Well, well, just for a minute, it you must. 
But remember, Selina, we can not again admit Mr. Ledbitter.” 

” I'd as soon admit the public hangman,” declared the farmer. 

Scarcely had Selina left the room, w'hen Walter Grame darted 
after her. He drew her into the best parlor, the door of which, 
adjacent to their sitting-room, stood open 

‘‘ Selina! you will never accord an interview to this man?” 

” Yes,” she answered. ‘‘ For the last time.” 

‘‘ What infatuation! Do you believe in him still?” 

” That is impossible,” she murmured, looking wretchedly ill. 


THE HAIL-CAKT ROBBEUYo 85 

and also wretcherlly cross. “ But, from the terms we were on, a 
last interview, a final imderstandin<T, is necessary.’' 

“ What terms?” he asked, biting his lips. ” It can not be that 
you were engaged to him?” 

” Not really engaged. But, had it not been for this, had Ledbit- 
ter remained what 1 thought he was, we should soon have been,” 

‘‘ 1 urn grieved to hear it. It is a lucky escape for you.” 

“Oh! and it is this which makes me so angry,” she bitterly ex 
claimed. ‘‘ Why did he monopolize my society, seek to make me 
like him, when he knew himself to be a base, had man. 1. who 
might have chosen from all the world 1 Let me go, Mr. Grame; 1 
shall be more myself, when this last interview is over,” 

” You can have nothing to say to him, Selina, that may not be 
said by a friend,” he persisted. ” Suffer me to see him for you.” 

” Nonsense,” she peevishly answered. “ You can not say what 
1 have to say.” 

She walked, with a hasty step, along the passage The two serv- 
ants were whispering in the kitchen; but Selina could see no sign 
of Mr. Ledbitter. Molly pointed with her finger toward the door of 
the best kitchen, and Selina went into it. 

In the middle of the cold, comfortless room, which had no fire in 
it, stood John Ledbitter. She walked up, and confronted him 
without speaking, her action and countenance expressing both anger 
and scorn. 

“ I see,” began Mr. Ledbitter, as he looked at her. ‘‘ 1 need not 
have come from Highani to do my errand this afternoon. It has 
been done for me.” 

‘‘ 1 feel it cold in this room,” said Selina, glancing round, and 
striving, pretty successfully, to hide the agitation she really felt un- 
der a show of indifference. ” Be so good as to tell me your busi 
ness — that 1 may return to the fire.” 

” My business was, partly to see how this false accusation had 
affected you toward me: 1 see it too plainly now. Had it been 
otherwise — ” 

He stopped: either from emotion, or from a loss to express him- 
self. She stood as still as a statue, and did not help him on. 

‘‘ Then 1 have only to say farewell,”' he resumed, "* and to thank 
you for the many happy hours we have spent together, 1 came to 
say something else: but no matter; I see now it would be use- 
less.” 

‘‘And 1 beg,” she said, raising herself proudly up, ” that you 
will forget those hours you speak of, and which 1 shall never reflect 


86 


THE MATL-OART ROBBERY. 


on out with a sense of degradation. 1 blush — 1 Mush/’ she vene* 
mently repeated, “ to think that the world may point to me, as 1 
pass ihrouffh the streets, and s'a 3 % ‘ There goes she who was engaged 
to the man, John Ledbitter!’ 1 pray that 1 may never see your face 
again.” 

” You never shall — by my seeking. Should 1 ever hold converse 
with yon again willingly, it will be under different auspices,” 

lie quilted the room, stalked through the kitchen, and across the 
fold-yard into the side-lane, his breast heaving with passionate 
anger; for she had aroused all the lion within him, Molly and Joan 
pressed their noses against the kitchen window, and slared after 
him till he was beyond view; just as they might have stared had 
some extraordinary foreign animal been on view there, and with 
quite as much curiosity. Whilst Selina Cleeve, repelling some softer 
emotions, which seemed inclined to make themselves felt vvilhin 
her, strove to shake John Ledbitter out of her thoughts, and to say 
to herself, as she returned to the sitting-room, that she had shaken 
him out of them forever. 

The years passed on, nearly two, and the postmaster at Higham 
became stricken with mortal illness. His disease was a lingering 
one, lasting over several months, during which time he was con- 
fined to his bed, and his son managed the business. One evening 
just before his death, when Walter was sitting in the room, the old 
man suddenly addressed him, 

” Walter,” he said, ” 1 shall soon be gone, and after that they will 
no doubt make you postmaster. Be steady, punctual, diligent in 
your daily business, as 1 trust 1 have been; be just and merciful in 
your dealings with your fellow-men, as 1 have striven to be; be more 
urgent than 1 have ever been in serving your Maker, for there the 
very best of us fall short. You have been a dutiful son to me; a 
good son ; and I pray that your children, in your old age, may be 
such to you.” 

Walter moved uneasily in his chair. 

“ There is only one thing in business matters which causes me re- 
gret for the past,” resumed Mr. Graine— ” that the particulars con- 
nected with John Ledbitter’s theft should never have come to light. 
It is a weight on my conscience, having suffered him to assume a 
post for which his position unfitted him. If he sought it with the 
intention of doing wrong, my having refused him the situation 
would have removed the temptation from his way.” 

” Ycu need not worry yourself over such a crotchet as that, fa- 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


SI 


ther,” responded the younger man. “ I can not think why he does 
not leave the country. The thing would be done with then, and 
pass from men’s minds.” 

” He has his punishment,” observed Mr. Graoie. ” Abandoned 
by his relations, scorned by his friends, shunned by all good men, 
and driven to get his living in the fields, as a day laborer! Many a 
man would sink under it.” 

“ He is a great fool to stay in Highamshire.” 

” No harsh names, Walter; John Ledbitter did not offend against 
you. Leave him to the stings of his owm conscience.” 

Walter muttered some reply, and quitted the room. He never 
liked to be found fault with, in ever so small a degree. 

During his absence, Mr. Grame dropped asleep and dreamed a 
vivid dream. So vivid, that, in the first moments of waking up, 
he could not be persuaded it was not reality. Its subject must have 
been suggested by the previous conversation. He dreamed that John 
Ledbitter was innocent: he did not see or understand how, but in 
his sleep he felt the most solemn conviction that the tact was so. 

” Waiter, Walter,” he gasped forth, after his confused relation 
of it, upon the return of his son, “ when nis innocence is brouirhi to 
light, do y^u try and make it up to him. I would, it 1 were alive.” 

“ When his innocence — what do you mean, sir? You must be 
asleep still. A dream is but a dream.” 

” Well — if it comes to light, if it shall be proved that John Led- 
bitter is an innocent and injured man, do you endeavor to com- 
pensate him for the injustice that has been heaped on his head. It 
is a charge 1 leave you. ’ ’ 

” The old man is wandering,” whispered Mr. Walter to the nurse, 
who was then present. 

“Like enough,” answered the woman: and it was through her 
that this dream of the postmaster’s got talked of in Higham. “ Like 
enough he is, poor gentleman. Let me give you your composing 
draught, sir.” 

A goodly company were wending their wa> to l^ayton church, 
for the fairest flower in Layton parish was that day to be taken out 
of it. A stranger, who happened to be passing through Layton, 
stepped into the church wMth the crowd. 

“ She is a bonny bride,” he observed to old Farmer Blount, who 
stood in the porch looking in. 

“ Ay, she is that. Some of the young men. about here have l)w-en 


88 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERT, 


wild atter her; but Walter Grame has distanced them. He is not 
bad-looking either, for a man.” 

“ Extremely handsome, 1 think. Who is he?” 

” The postmaster of Higham; as his father was before him. The 
old man died a year ago, and lett a goodish bit of property behind 
him; but it turned out that Master Walter there had anticipated his 
share; and how the young fellow had kept his creditors quiet was a 
matter of wonder. But he has sown his wild oats now, they say; 
and unless he had, Miss Cleeve, I take it, would have seen him 
further before she’d married him. Her father’s dead also, and 
there’s fifteen hundred pounds told down with her this day.” 

” He is a lucky dog.” 

” It is sheer luck with him, for he was not her first fancy. Young 
Ledbitter was; and she was mighty fond of him. But he ran his 
head into trouble — robbed the Layton mail-bag. Of course, no 
decent young woman could stand that, though he slipped out of a 
prosecution. Since then he has been thankful to any farmer who 
would give him a job of work. He is on my grounds nowv” 

The stranger gave a low whistle, forgetting he was in tlie porch 
of a church. “ Is it not hazardous, sir, to employ a thief even on 
your outdoor land?” 

” Well, you see, the Ledbitters were so much respected; people 
can not help feeling for them A likelier, steadier young fellow 
than John was, one could not expect to meet. 1 say it must have 
been a moment of sudden madness, or some other sort of temptation 
But he has got his treadmill on him: there’s not a mad dog in the 
parish more shunned than he. Hush! Here they come.” 

Mr. Walter Grame and his bride, no longer Selina Cleeve, walked 
first; next came Anne Sterling with her father. Several friends fol- 
lowed. The t^o young ladies were dressed alike, in lavender silk, 
it was the custom then, the bride wearing orange-blossoms in her 
white bonnet; Anne, lilies of the valley. They brushed the stranger 
as they walked through the porch, so that he — to use his own ex- 
pression — had a good look at them. 

” She’s a regular beauty,” he remarked to Farmer Blount; ” but 
for my choice give me the one that follows her, the bridemaid. The 
first has a temper of her own, or 1 never read an eye yet: the last 
has goodness written on her face.” Mr. Blount grunted forth an 
inaudible reply. None were more aware of Anne Sterling’s good- 
ness than the Blounts. George had proposed to her in secret the 
night of the ball, three years before, and she refused him. 

But another person was also looking on at the bridal party; a man 


' THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


89 


in a smock-frock; 1 )okiu<>- tbrougli a gap in the hedge, from an 
obscure corner of the church-yard. It was John Ledbitter. Oh, 
what a position was this unfortunate man’s! Guilt does, indeed, 
bring its own punishment— as all Layton, and Higham too, had re- 
peated, with reference to him, hundreds of times. Hunted down 
by his own class in life, condemned to labor hard for common sus 
tenance with the hinds wlio tilled the ground— for in any more re- 
sponsible situation, in an oflSce, or where money would have passed 
through his hands, none would trust him— there he stood, a marked 
man, watching her, whom he had once so passionately loved, led 
forth, the bride of another. A bitter word rose in his heart for that 
hour wheii he had first ascended the mail-cart to drive it to Layton; 
and with a wild cry, which startled the air, and seemed to be wrunsr 
from the very depths of bis spirit, he leaped the stile at the rear of 
the church-yard, and rushed back to lys labor in the fields. 

This statement, of the obloquy thrown upon John Ledbitter (as 
he is here called) and the manner in which he was shunned, is not 
exaggerated in the slightest degree. As those who are old enough 
to remember the circumstances well know. 


PART THE SECOND. 

A FEW years had gone by. 

It was the dinner hour at Hill House Farm, an hour after mid- 
day. ]Hr. Sterling and his daughter sat down to it alone. Latterly 
the farmer had been ailing in health and could not look much after 
his outdoor pursuits. People thought it singular that the farmer’s 
only child, who was admired wherever she was known, and who 
would be the inheritor of his substance, no small one, should have 
gained her six-and-twentieth year without having changed her 
name; but she laughingly answered, when joked about it, that she 
could not afford to leave her father and mother. 

“ Shall 1 carve to day, father, or will you? ’ inquired Anne. 

“ You carve, child.’ Cut for your mother first.” 

But Anne chose first of all to help her father. The dish was boiled 
beef, and she was careful to cut it tor him as he best liked it. She 
then rose to take up her mother’s dinner. 

‘‘ Why are you leaving the table, Anne? Where’s Molly, that 
she’s not waiting on us?” 


90 


THE MAIL- CART ROBRERAT'. 


“ Alollj’’ lias Aiartha’s work to do to-day as well as her own/’ re- 
plied Anne. “ 1 shall he back directly.” 

When dinner was over, the farmer drew his arm-chair close to the 
fire. Anne gave him his pipe and tobacco, set his small jiig of ale 
and glass beside him, and then went up to her mother’s chamber. She 
smoothed the bed and pillows, changed her mother’s cap for a 
smarter one, in case any neighbors dropped in, put some lavender- 
water on her handkerchief, and gave her her usual glass of wine. 

“ What else can 1 do, mother?” 

” Nothing, my dear. Sit dowm and be still. You must be tired> 
helping Molly so much this morning. Unless you will read a psalm. 
The book is here.” 

Anne Sterling took the Prayer-book, and read the evening psalms 
for the day in her clear and pleasant tone. She then sat talking. 
After a while, her mother seemed inclined to sleep; so Anne softly 
left the room, and went down to the kitchen. It was then four 
o’clock. 

” Well, Molly, how are you getting on?” 

“Oh, pretty well,” crossly responded the old servant, who w^as 
not so active since a hurt she had given to her knee. ‘‘Martha 
hadn’t need to go gadding for a holiday every day.” 

‘‘ Is my father gone out?” 

‘‘ 1 have not seen anything of him since dinner. Miss Anne. 

Anne went into the dining-room. Soon a wild cry echoed in the 
passages. Molly ran in as quickly as her lame knee wmuld permit. 

Mr. Sterling was in a fit. His pipe lay broken on the ground; his 
head had fallen on the elbow of his chaii; froth issued from his lips. 
Molly screamed out that it was apoplexy, 

‘‘ He will die, Miss Anne, unless something can be done. How 
in the world can we get the doctor here?” For the in- door man w^as 
absent; and no laborers that they knew of w'ere near the house. 

Anne Sterling , pale as a sheet, gathered her scared senses together. 
‘‘ 1 will run into Layton for the doctor,” she said; ‘‘you would 
never get there. Hold his head up, Molly, and rub Ids hands while 
1 am gone.” 

She darted oil without bonnet or shawl across the fold-yard into 
the lane, which was the nearest way to the little town of Layton, 
flying along as if for her life. It was dirty, and the mud splashed 
up with every step. A stalwart laborer, at work in a smock-frock 
in an adjacent field, stared at her with astonishment, and then stroue 
to the stile. 

‘‘ Oh,” she cried, as she darted up to him, her heart leaping at the 


THE MAIL-CAliT KOBBEliY. 


91 


sight of a human being, one who might perhaps be of service, “ if 
you can run quicker than 1, pray go for me into Layton. My father— 
1— I did not notice that it was you,” she abruptly broke off; ” 1 beg 
your pardon.” And, swifter it possible than before, she flew on her 
way down the lane. 

He was scarcely more than thirty years of age, yet lines of care 
were in his face, and silver was mixed with his luxuriant hair, but 
his countenance was open and pleasani to look upon. A tall, agile 
man, he leaped the stile at a bound, and overtook Anne. 

” Miss Sterling! Miss Sterling!” he impressively said, as he came 
up with her, ” you are in some distress.” And, strange to say- 
strange when contrasted with his dress and his menial occupation— 
his words and b(!aring were those of an educated and well-bred 
man. ” Though it is 1— myself; though 1 am a banned, persecuted 
outcast, need that neutralize any aid 1 can render? Surely no curse 
will follow that. What can 1 do for you?” 

She hesitated; feeling that she could not run as quickly as he 
could. What though John Ledhitter was pointed to among his 
fellow-men as a criminal who, by luck, not merit, had escaped the 
galleys, was not her father dying for want of aid? Yes, she would 
waive prejudice at this time of need. 

“ My father is in a fit,” §he panted ‘‘If you can get Mr. Jelf to 
him quicker than 1 can, we should be very thankful to you. 1 fear 
it is apoplexy.” 

” Apoplexy!” he repeated; ‘‘ then no time should be lost in the 
treatment. Jt must be half an hour before Mr. Jelf can be with 
him, even should he be at home. Mr. Sterling must be bled instant- 
ly, Is there any one in the house who can do it?” 

She shook ber head as she ran on. ” Not a soul is in the house 
but Molly. Except my mother — who is bedridden.” 

” Then 1 had better go back to j^our house — if it may be permitted 
me to enter it:” and he spoke the last words with conscious in- 
decision. ” 1 may be able to do something: if you can go on for 
]Mr. Jelf.” 

” Be it so,” she answered. ” Lose no time.” 

He sped back swiftly, and entered the house by way of the 
kitchen. He knew the locality well. There was no one about; 
but he heard the voice of Molly— be remembered that well, also — 
calling out, in a sobbing ton^, to know wdio had come in. 

She started when she saw who it was. A look of blank dismay, 
not unmixed with resentment, overspread her countenance. 

” What do you want. Master Ledbitter? What brings you here?” 


92 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


“lam come to render aid— if any be in my power. By Miss 
Sterling’s desire,’’ he added distinctl.y. “By the time the doctor 
can get here he would be past aid,” he continued, looking at the 
unfortunate man. “ Get me a washhand-basin, and some linen to 
make a bandage. Have you any hot water?’’ 

“ Plenty of it,’’ sobbed Molly. 

“ We must get his feet into it then. Bring in all the mustard you 
have in the house, while 1 take oft his shoes and stockings. Make 
haste. We may restore him yet.’’ 

John Ledbitter spoke with an air of authority; and Molly to her 
own astonishment obeyed, much as she despised him. Little time 
lost he. There was no lancet at hand, but he bared the farmer’s 
arm, and used his* own sharp penknife. He was an intelligent man, 
and knew something of surgery; and w^hen Anne Sterling returned 
she found her father had been rescued from immediate danger. Mr, 
Jelf was not with her; he was on the other side of Layton, visiting 
a patient, but they had sent after him. A neighbor or two returned 
with Anne. 

“ He is not in favor with honest folk, that John Ledbitter,’’ re- 
marked Molly, when she came in, “ but, as sure as we are sinful 
creatures, you may thank him, Miss Anne, that you have yet a 
living father. The master was at the last. gasp. ’’ 

He did more, besides restoring Him. He was strong and active, 
and with a little help from the women he got Mr. Sterling upstairs, 
undressed him, and placed him in bed. “ 1 will remain and watch 
him, with your permission,’’ he said, looking at Anne, “until the 
surgeon comes.’’ 

“ If you will kindly do so,’’ she answered. “I am very grateful 
to you; indeed I am,’’ she added, through her tears, as she held out 
her hand to him. “ My mother will not know how to thank you, 
when she hears that to you, under Heaven, he owes his life.’’ 

Mr. Ledbitter did not lake her offered hand. He extended his 
own, and turned it round from side to side, as if to exhibit its horny, 
rough texture, bearing the impress of hard, out-door work, while a 
peculiar smile of mockery and bitterness rose to his face. 

“ It is not so fitting as it once was to come into contact with a 
lady's,” he observed; “ these last six years have left their traces on 
it. You would say also, as the world says, that worse marks than 
those of work are on it— that it bears the impress of its crime, as 
Cain bore his.” 

She looked distressed. What was there that she could answer? 

“ And yet, Anne— pardon me, the familiar name lose inadvert 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


93 


ently, not from disrespect; I used to call you so, and you have 
never since, in my mind, been anything but Anne Sterling— what if 
1 were to assert that the traces of rough usage are the worst guilt of 
which that hand can righteously be accused; that it is dyed with no 
deeper crime? What then?” 

‘‘ 1 don’t know,” she faltered. 

” 1 do.” he answered. ‘‘You would throw my assertion to the 
winds, as others threw it, and leave me to toil and blanch and die 
in those winds, rather than accord me the sympathy so necessary 
from man to man, even though it were but the sympathy of pity. 
A m^enger from Heaven might whisper such to a fallen angel.” 

The" reproach of crime had lain upon John Ledbitter for more 
than six long years. Suitable employment would be accorded him 
by none; nobody would look at him or trust him. His motive for 
remaining in the locality could not be fathomed. Had he gone else- 
where, abroad for instance, he might have assumed his former 
standing and got on. But he did not go. 

Mr. Sterling got better. But only for a short time; hardly long 
enough, as the old gentleman himself said, to make his peace with 
his Maker. He never left his bed again. Mrs. Sterling, whose dis- 
order appeared to abate, and her strength to revive with tlie neces- 
sity of the case, now managed to reach her husband’s room, and to 
sit with him for several hours daily. 

About three weeks subsequent to the farmer’s attack, his daugh- 
ter went to Higham by the morning coach, to see her cousin, Mrs. 
Grame. As she entered the passage of the house the office was on 
her right, and Mr. Grame was there, stamping letters. He had 
succeeded to the poStmastership when his father died. Anne waited 
a moment, thinking he might see her, and she observed that his 
eyes were red, and his hands shaking. 

‘‘ Good-morning, Walter,” she said. ‘‘ Is Selina upstairs?” 

The postmaster looked up. ‘‘ What, is it you, Anne? Y’ou have 
just come, 1 suppose. How is your father?” 

‘‘ He is better, but gains no strength, ^nd does not get up. This 
is the first day he has seemed sufficiently comfortable for me to 
leave him, or I should have been in to see Selina before.” 

” And 1 have been so bothered with one thing or other that I have 
not had a minute’s leisure to ride over. What tale’s that, about 
Ledbitter having saved his life?” 

” He certainly did save it. My father must have been dead 
before the surgeon came, had it not been tor John Ledbitter. He 


94 


THE MAIL-CART RORBERY. 


applied the necessary remedies, and bled him, as handily and ettec- 
tually as Mr. Jelf could have done.” 

‘‘ Ah, women are easily frightened,” carelessly repeated the post- 
master. “We heard that you came across Ledbitter as you were 
running into Layton for Jelf.” 

“ It was so.” 

” Well, then I must tell you, Anne, that 1 contradicted that re- 
port. For I never could have believed you would permit yourself 
to hold speech with the man, still less admit him inside the house.” 

“ Not to save my father?” returned Anne. ” I would use any 
means, any instrument, when his life was at stake.” 

“You did not know it would save his life,” persisted Mr. Grame. 
“ 1 am astonished at your imprudence, Anne.” 

“My father was dying for want of assistance,” she retorted, 
warmly. “ 1 am thankful that Providence threw even John Led- 
bitter in my way to render it.” 

“ Providence?” sarcastically ejaculated the postmaster. 

“Providence,” quietly repeated Anne. “ The longer 1 live the 
more plainly, do 1 see the hand of Providence in all the actions of 
our lives. Even in those which to us may appear insignificantly 
trivial.” 

“ Y'^ou will avow yourself a fatalist next,” rejoined the post- 
master. 

“ How is the baby?” inquired Anne, to turn the conversation. 

“ph^Jt’s well enough, if one may judge by its crying. 1 never 
heard a young one with such lungs. I tliink Selina must manage 
it badly. You will find them all upstairs.” 

She went up to the sitting-rooms, and then up again to Mrs. 
Grame’s bedchamber, and knocked at the door. But there was so 
great a noise within of children crying that she had little chance of 
being heard, and opened it. Mrs. Grame sat in a rocking-chair, in 
an invalid wrapper and shawl, her countenance pale and worn, pre- 
senting a painful contrast to that of the once blooming and lovely 
Selina Cleeve. The infant in her arms was crying, as it in pain; 
another little fellow, of two years, stood by her knee, roaring with 
temper. 

Anne went up and kissed her. “ What are you doing here, with 
these crying children, Selina?” 

“ Oh, dear, do try and quiet them, Anne!” Mrs, Grame helplessly 
uttered, bursting into tears; “ my very life is harassed out of me. 
Since the nurse left 1 have the trouble of thorn all day.” 

Anne threw her bonnet aul sliawl on the bed; and, taking a 


THE MATL-CAllT EOP.EERY. 


95 


paper of home-made cakes from her pocket, drew the elder child's 
eye toward them. The tears were arrested half way; the noise 
ceased. 

“ These cakes are for good little boys who don’t cry,” said Anne, 
seating the young gentleman on the floor, and putting some into his 
pinafore. Then she took the infant from its mother, and carried it 
about the room. "When soothed to silence and sleep she sat down 
with it on her knee. 

“ Selina,” she began, ” 1 am not going to tell you now that you 
are a bad manager, for 1 have told you that often enough when you 
were well. But how comes it that you have no nurse?” 

“ Ask Walter,^ replied Mrs. Grame, a flood of resentment in her 
tone. 

” Now be calm, and speak quietly of things. 1 heard your chil- 
dren’s maid had left, but you surely purpose taking another.” 

” 1 purpose!” bitterly retorted Mrs. Grame; ” it is of very little 
use what 1 purpose or want. "Walter squanders the money away 
on his own pleasures, and we cannot afford to keep twp servants. 
Now you ha\e the plain truth, Anne.” 

”1 have thought,” resumed Miss Sterling, after an awkward 
pause, ” that you have sometimes appeared not quite at your ease 
as to money. But this is a case of necessity; your health is at 
stake. It is Mr. Grame’s duty to provide an additional servant.” 

“ Listen, Arne,” resumed Mrs. Grame, speakins: with an excite- 
ment her cousin in vain endeavored to arrest. “ You thought I 
married well; that if Walter had been living freel 3 ^ as a young 
man, and anticipated his inheritance, he was steady then, had a good 
home to bring me to, and a liberal salary You thought this—my 
uncle and aunt thought it — 1 thought it. But what were the facts? 
Before that child v/as born ” — and she pointed to the little cake- 
eater — ” 1 found he was over head and ears in debt; and the debts 
have been augmenting ever since. His quarter’s salary, when paid, 
only serves to stop the most pressins of them, and to supply his 
private expenses, of which he appears to have an abundance. Such 
expenses are shameful for a married fnan.” 

” Be calm, Selina.” 

‘‘ Calm! how can 1 be calm? I wish 1 had never seen him! I 
wish 1 had been a thousand miles off, before 1 consented to marry 
him! 1 never did love him. Don’t look reprovingly at me, Anne; 
it is the truth. 1 loved but one, and that was John Ledbitter. 
When he turned out worthless, 1 thought my heart would have 
broken, though I carried it oft with a high hand, for 1 was bitterly 


96 


THE MAIL-CAET ROBBERY. 


inceusetl against him Then came Walter Grame, with his insinu- 
ating whispers and his handsome tace, and talked me into a liking 
for him. And then into a marriage—” 

“ Selina,” interrupted Anne, “you should not speak so of your 
husband, even to me.” 

‘‘1 shall speak to the world, perhaps, by and by; he tries me 
enough for it. JNight after night, night after night, since from a 
few months after our marriage, does he spend away from me. He 
comes home toward morning, sometimes sober, sometimes stagger- 
ing from what he has taken. Beast!” 

Anne could not stem the torrent of passion.^ Selina had always 
been excitable. 

” 1 should not so much care now, for I have grow’u inured to it; 
and my fornricr reproaches— how useless they were!— have given 
place to silent scorn and hatred, were it not for the money these 
habits of his consume. Circumstances have grown very poor with 
us; of ready money there seems to be none: it is with difficulty we 
provide*for our daily w^ants, for tradespeople refuse us credit. How 
then can 1 bring another servant into the house, when we can hardly 
keep the one we have?” 

” This state of things must be killing her,” thought Anne. 

‘‘ What it will come to 1 don’t know,” proceeded the invalid, 
” but a break-up seems inevitable, and then he will lose his situ- 
ation as postmaster. In any case, 1 don’t think he will keep it long, 
for it he could stave off pecuniary ruin, his health is so shattered that 
he is unfit to hold il. 1 now thank my dear aunt that she was firm 
in having my £1500 settled on m)’’self. The interest of it is not 
much, but, when the worst yomes, it may buy dry bread to keep 
me and these poor children from starvation, and pay for a garret to 
lodge in. ” 

” Oh, Selina!” sighed Anne Sterling, as the tears ran dovvn her 
cheeks, “ how terribly you shock me!” 

“ 1 have never betrayed this to a human being till now. You may 
have thought me growm cold, capricious, ill-tempered- no doubt 
you have, Anne, often, when you have come here. Kot long 
ago, you said how marriage seemed to have altered me. But now 
you see what 1 have had to try me, the sort of existence mine has 
been.” 

” What can 1 do for you? how can 1 help?” inquired Anne. “ 1 
would take little Walter home with me, and relieve you of him for 
a time, but my father’s stale demands perfect quiet in the house. 


THE MAIL-CAET ROBBERY. 


97 


Money, beyond a tiifle, I have not, of my own, to oiler; perhaps 
my mother, when she knows, will — ” 

“ She must not know,” vehemently interrupted Selina. “ I for- 
bid you to tell her, Anne— 1 forbid you to tell any one. As to 
money, it you were to put a hundred pounds down before me this 
minute, 1 would say throw it rather into the lire, for he would be 
sure to get scent of it, and squander it. l^o, let the crisis come. 
The sooner ttie better. Things may be smoother after it, or at any 
rate quieter; as it is, the house is dunned by creditors. Oh, Anne! 
if it were not for these children 1 would come back and find peace 
at the farm, if you w’ould give me shelter But now — to go from 
my own selfish troubles— tell me about my uncle. To think that 
it should be John Ledbitter, of all people, who came in to his help! 
Walter went on in aline way about it, inoneof his half-tipsy moods. 
He has an unconquerable hatred to him, as powerful as it is lasting. 
1 suppose it arises from knowing I was once so much attached to 
him.” 

” Selina,” returned Miss Sterling, lowering her voice, “you will 
say it is a strange fancy of mine; but, from a few words John Led- 
bitter spoke to me, the evening of my father’s attack, I have been 
doubting whether he was guilty.” 

“ What can you mean?” demanded Selina, with startling fervor. 

“ AVhat grounds have you for saying this? Did he assert his in- 
nocence?” 

“ On the contrary, he seemed rather to let me assume his guilt. 
He said, that of course I believed him guilty, as the rest of the 
world did, but then followed a hint that he could assert his inno- 
cence. His manner said moie than his wmrds. It was very 
peculiar, very resentfully independent, betraying the self-reliance 
of an innocent man smarting under a stinging sense of injury. I do 
believe — ” 

” Don’t go on, Anne,” interrupted Mrs. Grame, with a shiver. 
‘‘ If it should ever turn out that John Ledbitter W’as accused un- 
justly, that I, of all others, helped to revile and scorn him, my sum 
of misery would be complete: 1 think 1 should go mad or die. 1 
supi)ose you have seen him but that once.” 

” Indeed we have. He called the next day, and Molly let him go 
up to see my father.” 

“ In his smock-frock,” interposed Mrs. Grame, in a derisive tone. 

“ We have never seen him in anything else, except on Sundays, 
and then you know, he is dressed well. He comes every day now.” 

“No!” 


98 


THE MAIL-CAET ROBBERY. 


“ He profteted his services to me and my mother, if he could be 
of any use about the farm. We were at terrible fault tor some one 
to replace my father, and a few things he undertook were so well 
executed that they led to more. Now he is regularly working for 
us.” 

“ Not as bailift?” 

*‘ No, not exactly as bailiff; but he looks after things generally 
during the bailiff’s prolonged absence. He is no better, by the way, 
Selina, people often fall ill when they can be least spared.” 

Mrs. Giame leaned her head upon her hand and mused. “ Is 
John much altered?” she asked. 

‘‘ Oh, yes. His hair is going gray, and his countenance has a look 
of care I never thought to see on one so smiling and sunny as was 
John Ledbitter’s.” 

Anne Sterling returned to Layton that evening with sad and sor- 
rowful thoughts; the more so, that she was forbidden to confide 
Selina’s troubles to her mother. But she had little leisure to brood 
over them in the weeks ensuing. A change for the worse occurred 
in her father’s state, and it was evident that his thread of life was 
W’orn nearly to its end. The farmer held many an anxious consul- 
tation with his wife and daughter, touching his worldly affairs. It 
was intended that the farm should be given up after his death, but 
several months must elapse before that could be effected— and who 
was to manage the land in the meantime? One Sunday evening, in 
particular, Mr, Sterling seemed unusually restless and anxious on 
this score. His wife in vain besought him not to disturb himself — 
that she and Anne should manage very well, and that perhaps the 
bailiff’s illness might take a turn. 

“ 1 should have died at ease could I have left a trustworthy man- 
ager,” he persisted. ‘‘If Ledbitter had not the mark upon him, 
there’s no one else I’d so soon have appointed. He is a first-rate 
farmer.” 

” Father,” spoke Anne, timidly, ‘ 1 by no means feel sure that 
John Ledbitter was guilty. A doubt of it lies in my mind.” 

‘‘ Now, why do you say that, Anne?” 

“ I judge by his manner and by some -words he let fall. Of course — 
There he is,” broke off Anne, seeing John Ledbitter advance, from 
her seat by the window. ” 1 dare say he is coming to inquire after 
you.” 

‘‘ Let him come up,” rejoined the farmer. 

Mr. Ledbitter entered. None, looking at him now, could suppose 
he had the brand of a thief upon him, still less that he was a com- 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


99 


moQ day-laborer. For he bore the stamp of a cjentleman in his dress 
and manner— in his manly form and countenance. One of his sis- 
ters had died lately, and John went into mourning for her, though 
she, as the rest of the family, had cast him oft. Mr. Sterling invited 
him to take a chair. 

“ John Ledbitter,” began the farmer, “ since 1 lay here T have had 
a great many things in my mind; that old business of yours is one 
of them; and a remark of Anne’s has now brought an impulse over 
me to ask you, it you can, or will, make things clearer. It’s all 
over now, however it might have been, but I should like to know 
the truth. 1 am a dying man, John Ledbitter, and it would be a 
rest to my mind.” 

A deep crimson dyed the face of John Ledbitter. Once, twice, 
he essayed to speak, and no words came, but when he did find 
speech it was that of a truthful, earnest-minded man. 

“ Six years ago— more now~when that happened, I denied my 
guilt to you, Mr. Sterling. 1 told you that 1 was innocent as you 
were ; but 3 ’ou answered me derisively, making a mockery of what 1 
said, and sneered me into silence. I was innocent.” 

“■Whatl” gasped the farmer, whilst Mrs. Sterling rose into a 
more upright position on her pillowed chair. 

” I have not often been guilty of telling a lie: never that 1 can 
now recall to my recollection,” he resumed. “ But 1 could no 
more dare to assert one to you, hovering, as you are, on the con- 
fines of the next world, than 1 could, were I myself on its confines. 
Sir, as 1 said then, 1 repeat to you now — 1 never knew what be- 
came of the letter or the money; 1 never saw or touched either. In 
the presence of God 1 assert this.” 

” Then who did take it?” inquired the amazed farmer. 

” 1 can not tell; though my nights have been sleepless and my 
hair has grown gray with anxiety over this very question. Old Mr. 
Grame affirmed the letter was in the bag when he delivered it to 
me; Mr. Marsh affirmed it was not in the bag when 1 delivered it to 
him. They were both to be trusted; they were both above sus- 
picion: but I will affirm that the bag between those points was never 
opened or touched, or the box of the mail-cart unlocked, except to 
take out the Weirford bag. It is a curious mystery, but a certainty 
has always rested upon me that time will unravel it.” 

” But why not have proclaimed your innocence then, as you have 
now?” inquired Mrs. Sterling. 

“Dear madam, 1 did proclaim it,” he answered with emotion. 
‘‘To my relatives, to my friends, to the postmasters, to Mr. Ster- 


100 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


ling; as earnestly, as solemnly, as 1 now assert it this day. Not one 
listened to me. I met, even from my family, with nothing but dis- 
belief and contumely. They were impressed with the conviction 
that my innocence was an inipossibility. 1 do not blame them: 1 
should myself so have judged another, accused under the same cir- 
cumstances: and even she, who was more to me than my own life, 
joined in the scorn and shook me off. I took an oath, a rash one, 
perhaps, that 1 would never leave the spot until noy innocence was 
established. So 1 have lived since, shunned by and shunning my 
equals; never ceasing, in secret, my endeavors to trace out the lost 
note: but as yet without success. 1 have spoken truth, Mr. Ster- 
ling.” 

“ I do believe you have,” murmured the dying man. “ May God 
make up to you the persecutions you have endured, John Ledbit- 
ter!” 

Farmer Sterling died a man of substance, worth a great many 
thousand pounds, and John Ledbitter discarded his smock-frock 
when he was appointed manager of the farm by Mrs. Sterling. And 
thus a few weeks went by. 

The post-office at Higham was closed for the night, and its master 
sat drinking brandy-and- water in his sitting-room. It was only ten 
o’clock, and very early for him to be at home; but he had come in 
saying he was not well. Mrs. Grame sat by his side in a sullen state 
of rebellion. He had received his salary two days before, had 
locked it up in one of his iron safes, and had given her none of it. 
A desperate resolution was stealing over her — and the reader may 
justify or condemn her according to his judgment — that as soon as 
her husband should sleep she would go down to the office, and take 
some of this money for her pressing necessities. 

” Where’s the sugar?” inquired Mr. Grame. 

” 1 have no sugar for you,” she resentfully answered. ” I told 
you this morning there was none for the baby.” 

The postmaster, in a jocular tone, tor he had taken enough to 
drink already, consigned his wife and child to York, drank some 
brandy neat, and pulled open the sideboard-cupboard in search of 
the sugar-basin. There it stood, full of moist sugar. So he paid 
his wife another worthy compliment. 

” It is not yours,” she exclaimed,” or meant for j’^ou. My Cousin 
Anne was here to-day, and brought it for the baby.” 

lie answered by dropping a full teaspoontul of it into his glass. 

” And what news did Anne Sterling bring?” he said, in a mocking 


THE MAIL-CAET ROBBERY. 


101 


tone, as lie lighted a cigar. “ Fresh praises of their new manager, 
the thief Ledbitter?” 

“ li. not Jjedbitter who was the thief ; she told me that news,” 
Mrs. Grame replied, 'in a raised, almost an hysterical voice; for 
Anne Sterling’s information had had its effect upon her. “ John 
Ledbitter was innocent; the crime was committed by another. 1 
ought to have known that from the first.” 

A curious change came over Walter Grame. His face turned to 
a deadly whiteness, his cigar fell from his lips, his teeth for a mo- 
ment chattered. ‘‘Ledbitter innocent!” he criefl. ‘‘Did she say 
who took it? How did it come to light?” 

‘‘ What is the matter with you?” asked his wife. ‘‘ Are you so 
full of hatred to John Ledbitter that hearing of his innocence should 
affect you in this manner?” 

‘‘ Woman!” he retorted, in agitation, ‘‘ 1 asked you how it came 
to light!” 

‘‘ Nothing has come to light; except that just before my uncle’s 
death Ledbitter convinced him of his innocence. 1 wish the real 
criminal was discovered,” she impetuously continued; ” 1, for one, 
would aid in prosecuting him to the death. Whoever he may be, 
he has been hugging himself under the ruin of poor John Ledbitter.” 

Mr. Grame laughed a forced laugh, and stooped to pick up his 
crushed cigar, for he had put his foot on it when it fell burning to 
the carpet. ‘‘ That’s his sort of innocence, is it?” he derisively ob- 
served; ‘‘ his own assertion! Honest men want something else, Mrs. 
Grame.” 

But Selina saw that his teeth chattered still, and his hand shook 
so as scarcely to be able to lift the bottle, draughts from which he 
kept pouring into his glass. ‘‘ How very singular!” she repeated to 
herself. It was not at all unusual for Walter Grame to be shaky 
and tottering; but this emotion, telling ot fear, was unusual. 

The spirit at length told upon Mr. Grame, and he sunk down 
upon the sofa and slept, an unconscious man. Then, her lips 
pressed together with angry resolution, Mrs. Grame possessed her- 
self of his keys and the key of the private office, which he always 
kept in his pocket, and stole down stairs. 

She stood before the iron safe, the smaller safe— his, in his fa- 
ther’s time— and tried the keys, several of the bunch, before she 
came to the right one. The moment it was unlocked, the door flew 
open and struck her on the forehead. A large bump rose instantly; 
she put up her hand and felt it. At any other time she would have 
been half stunned by the shock ; it w^as not heeded now. 


102 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY 


Two cash-boxes and three small drawers were disclosed to view, 
and she had to try the keys again; each drawer opened with a dif- 
ferent key. The first drawer was full of papers; in the second, as 
she drew it open, she saw no money, only one solitary letter lying 
at the end ot it. An old letter, getting yellow now; still folded, ^ut 
its seal broken. Its address was, “ Mr. Sterling, Hill House Farm, 
Highamshire.” A powerful curiosity excited her; she had recog- 
nized the writing of her own father; what should bring a letter of 
his, addressed to her uncle, in this secret safe of Walter Grarne’s? 
As she opened the letter, something fell from it, and Mrs. Grame 
sunk almost fainting on to a chair. 

It was the long-lost letter and money, which John Ledbitter had 
been accused of stealing, the bank-note for fifty pounds. Had the 
letter been mislaid by old Mr. Grame, and overlooked till this day, 
she asked, in the first bewildering moment of discovery. Or had 
Walter acted the traitor’s part to bring disgrace upon Ledbitter? 
“ The latter, oh! the latter.” she convulsively uttered, when reason 
asserted its powers; “ and I, who once so truly loved John Ledbit- 
ter, discarded him for this maul” 

She made no further search for the gold— this discovery absorbed 
every care and thought. Securing the letter and note upon her 
person, she locked the sate again, sped upstairs, and shook her hus- 
band violently, pouring forth her indignant accusation. He strug- 
gled up on the sofa and stared at her: she herself was a curious 
object just then, with that dark mound standing out on her fore- 
head, and her dangerous excitement. Then he began to shake and 
shiver, for he misunderstood her excited words, and apprehended 
that the officers of justice weie after him. The frignt partially 
sobered him, but he was half-stupefied still. 

“ Nobody can prosecute but you, Selina,” he abjectly stammered, 
in his confused terror. ‘‘You will not refuse to hush it up for your 
husband.” 

” Tell me the truth, and you shall Twt be prosecuted,” she vehe- 
menlly answered, humoring his fears. “ Did you do it on purpose 
to ruin John Ledbitter?” 

” No, no,” he uttered. ” 1 was hard up; 1 was, indeed, Selina. 

1 did not know where to turn to for money, and if my debts had 
come to the knowledge of the old man he would have disinherited 
me. So when this fiftj'- pounds came before me, like a temptation, 

1 took it. That’s the whole truth.” 

“You took it,” she repeated, ” after it was given to John Led- 
bitter?” 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY, 


103 


*' It never was given to him. As the master dropped it into the 
bag, some man came to the window with a question, and my father 
turned to answer him. It was Stone the barber, I remember. 1 
twitched the letter out then, and the master closed the bag and never 
knew it. But 1 did not use it, Selina; the money’s there now; I 
could not find an immediate opportunity oh changing it away, and 
then such a hubbub w^as struck up that 1 never dared to chamre it. 
But 1 never thought then to harm Leilbitter.” 

“ And 1 could make this man my husband!” she muttered — 
‘‘the father of my unhappy children! Traitor! Coward! how 
dared you thrust yourself into the society of honest people?” 

His only answer was to stagger to the table, and drink a deep 
draught of the spirit still standing on it. It revived his courage. 

‘‘Ha! ha! my old father had a dream a night or two before he 
died. He dreamed that Ledbitter was innocent, and charged me to 
make it up to him. Me! as if some inkling of the truth had pene- 
trated to his brain. I did not like that dream; it has subdued me 
since whenever 1 have thought of it— and now it has come out. But 
there’s one part, Selina, which is glorious to think of still— that it 
lost you to him, and gained you for me.” 

She might have struck him had she remained in the room longer, 
for her feelings were worked up to a pitch of exasperation bordering 
upon madness. She went upstairs, bolted herself in the chamber 
with her children, and threw herself, dressed, on the bed. Her 
husband did not attempt to follow her. 

The next afternoon she was at Layton, entering the Hill House 
Farm. At the front gate she encountered John Ledbitter. ‘‘ It is 
you 1 have come to see,” she said. 

Not for years had they met; and she spoke and looked so strange- 
ly that, but for her voice, he would scarcely have recognized her. 
He followed her in. Anne Sterling, who was in the parlor alone, 
rose from her seat in surprise and inquired if all was well at Higham. 

‘‘ Examine this, Mr. Ledbitter,” was Mrs. Grame’s only answer, 
drawing from her pocket the fatal letter. ‘‘ Do you recognize it?” 

Not at first did he understand; but when a shadowing of what 
it was burst upon him, he was much agitated. All three were stand- 
ing round the table. “ Am 1 to understand, Mrs. Grame, that this 
has been lost — mislaid — all these years?” he inquired. And it was 
a natural question, seeing the note intact. 

“Mislaid!” burst forth Mrs. Grame, giving way to her excite- 
ment. “ It was stolen, John Ledbitter; stolen from the bag before 
it went into your charge. And the thief— thief and coward— trem- 


104 


THE MAIL‘CAIIT BOBJ3ERY. 


bled at his act when he had done it, and dared not use the money. 
He has kept it since from the light of day. Look at it, Anne.” 

” And this thief was—?” 

‘‘ Waller Grame. To you 1 will not screen him, though 1 am his 
wretched wife. To the world it may be allowed to appear as was 
your first thouglit now—if you, Mr. Ledbitter, will show mercy 
where none has been shown you. 1 would not ask it but for his in- 
nocent children. 1 have not seen him since last night. He is no- 
where to be found. Everything is in confusion at home, and the let- 
ters this morning had to be sorted by a postman.” 

“ Where is he?” inquired Anne. 

” 1 know not: unless this discovery has so worked upon his fears 
that he means to abandon his home and his country. 1 pray that it 
may be so: I shall be more tranquil without him.” 

“You are not going? You will surely stay tor some refresh- 
ment,” reiterated Miss Sterling, as Mrs. Grame turned toward the 
front door, in the same abrupt manner that she had entered it. 

“ 1 can not remain, Anne, 1 must go back to Higham; and for 
refreshment, I could not swallow it. A friend of ours drove me over 
in his gig, and is waiting for me at the gate. You will explain 
tilings to my aunt. 1 have only one more word to say, and that is 
to you, Mr. Ledbitter. Will you— will you — ” 

John Ledbitter took her hands in his, looking down compassion- 
ately upon her, for her emotion was so great as to impede her utter- 
ance, and the corners of her irouth twitched convulsively. 

‘‘Will you forgive mel it is that 1 want to say,” she panted— 
” forgive my false heart for judging you as others judged? In our 
last interview— here, in this house — you said if we ever met again it 
should be under different auspices. Tiie auspices are different.” 

What lie answered, as he led her to the gig, was known to them- 
selves alone. Her tears were flowing fast, and her hand was clasped 
in his. It may be that in that brief moment a trace of his once pas- 
sionate tenderness for her was recalled to his heart. Anne Sterling 
was watching them from the window, but she never asked a ques- 
tion about it, then or afterward. 

It was rare news for Higham. Waller Grame, what with his un- 
fortunate debts and his unfortunate habits, had found himself un- 
able to make head against the storm, and had started off, poor 
fellow, and taken ship for America: and in the search, which fol- 
lowed, his wife had come upon the missing letter and money, 
amongst some old valueless papers. In what unaccountable manner 


THE MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


105 


it could have, been mislaid, was useless to inquire now, since old 
Mr. Grame was dead and gone: but that no fraud was committed 
by any one was proved by the money being found sate. Probably 
the old genileman had inadvertently dropped the letter amidst some 
papers of his own, instead of into the mail-bag, and never discov- 
ered his mistake. So reasoned the town, as they pressed into the 
post office to curiously handle the letter and note. 

But John Ledbiiter? Higham went very red with shame when 
it remembered him. How on earth could he be recompensed for 
all he had endured? Three parts of the city, rich and poor, flocked 
over to Layton in one day ; some in carriages, some in gigs, some 
on horseback, some in vans, and the rest on their two good legs. 
AYhen IMrs. Sterling saw the arrival of these masses from her bed- 
room window, she screamed out to Molly and Martha, believing the 
people must see a fire on the farm, and were coming to put it out. 
John Ledbitter’s hands were nearly shaken oft; and many a voice, 
bold at other times, was not ashamed of its own emotion, as it 
pleaded for forgiveness and renewed friendship. Everybody was 
for doing something by way of recompense, had they only known 
what. Some few were for asking the king to knight him; and 
John’s brothers— who had got on in the world — whispered that the 
money to set him up, in any farm he chose to fix on in the county, 
was at his command. John good-humoredly thanked them all; and 
when the last visitor was got rid of„he turned to Miss Sterling. 

“ They have been speaking of a recompense,” he said to her, in a 
low tone. ” There is only one thing that would seem such to me; 
and that is not in their power to give. It is in yours, Anne.” 

Anne’s eyes fell beneath his; a rich, conscious color rose to her 
cheeks, and there was the same expression on her face that John 
Led bit ter had never seen but once before, many years ago, ere he 
had declared his love for Selina Cleeve. He had thought then — in 
his vanity — that it betrayed a liking tor him; and he thought it — 
not in his vanity — again now. 

“Anne,” he tenderly whispered, drawing her to him, ‘‘that 
dreadful misfortune, which, when it overwhelmed me, seemed far 
worse than death, was certainly sent for at least one wise purpose. 
But for that, 1 should have linked my fate with your cousin’s, and 
neglected you — most worthy, and long since best loved. AVill you 
forgive my early blindness— which 1 have lately wondered at- -or 
will you shrink from sharing that name which has had a brand 
upon it?” 

Closer and closer he held her to him, and she did not resist. No 


106 


TH£ MAIL-CART ROBBERY. 


words escaped her lips; but she was inwardly resolving, in her new 
happiness—a glimpse of which had recently hovered on her spirit 
— that her love and care should make up to him for the past. 

“ It is good,” said old Molly, nodding her head with satisfaclion 
when she heard the news from her mistress. ‘‘ We sha’n’t have to 
give up the farm now, ma’am, for Mr. John can take it upon his 
own hands.” 

Mr. John did so; and he took his wife with it. 

As to poor Selina Grame, Mrs. Sterling and other relatives made 
up her income to something comfortable. But when a few months 
had elapsed, they heard with surprise that she was about to join her 
husband in America. One and all remonstrated with her. 

” Walter wants me,” was her answer. ” He writes me word that 
he has put all bad habits away and is as steady now as heart could 
wish: and he has a good post in an office in New York. One’s hus- 
band is one’s husband, after all, you know.” 


THE END. 


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162 Shirley 20 

311 The Professor 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


329 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love- Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated) 20 

1829 Only Mattie- Garland ' 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen • 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBBARY.— Ordinary Edition. 


551 The Yellow Mask 10 

583 Fallen Leaves 20 

654 Poor Miss Finch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil . 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 16 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 “I Say No” 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte ‘ 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallhigford (Sequel to “ Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1569 The Headsman ; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific. ... 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 JIard Tioies. 10 


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LATEST ISSUES: 


413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fenimoro 

Cooper 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to “Afloat 

and Ashore.”) J. Feuimore Cooper 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

416 Jack Tier ; or, The Florida Reef. By 

J. Feuimore Cooper 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. Valen- 

tine’s Day. By Sir VValter Scott. . . 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

419 The Chainhearer ; or, Tlie Littlepage 

Manuscripts. ,T. Fenimore Cooper. 20 

420 Satanstoe; or, 'I’lie Littlepage Manu- 

scripts. By J. Fenimore Cooper. . . 20 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and Injin. 

Being the conclusion of The Little- 
page Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

224 Precaution. By J. Fenimore Cooper W 
423 Tlie Sea-Lions; or. The Lost Sealers. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 


424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The Voyage 

to Cathay. By J. Fenimore Cooper 

425 The Oak-Openings; or. The Bee- 

Hunter. By J. Fenimore Cooper. . 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ashworth 

Taylor 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir Thom- 

as Upmore, Bart., M!P., Formerly 
known as “ Tommy Upmore.” R. 
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428 Z6vo: A Story of Monte-Carlo. By 

Mrs. Campbell Praed 

429 Boulderstone; or. New Men and Old 

Populations. By William Sime 

430 A Bitter Reckoning. By the author 

of “ By Crooked Paths ” 

431 The Monikins J. Fenimore Cooper.. 

432 The Witch’s Head. By H. Rider Hag- 

gard 

433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne,” 
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